Outsmarting a Fox
by IcyWaters
Summary: A new commandante with a hidden agenda has Diego doubting his own instincts and facing a future without Zorro – if he can first keep his neck out of a noose. Based on the Walt Disney Zorro series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is based upon characters appearing in the Walt Disney Zorro television series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. I don't own 'em, I'm just a fan wanting to keep the spirit of a favorite show alive.

Author's Note: This story builds on the theme of the missing letters initially presented in my previous works, _The Clumsiest Swordsman in California_ and _The Outlaw El Zorro_, though it is not necessary to read them first in order to follow this adventure.

My profound thanks go to Ida Mirei, who has stuck with me for more than three years through all the ups and downs of writing this story. Without her encouragement and feedback, it would cease to exist. To show my gratitude, _Outsmarting a Fox_ is dedicated to her.

I also wish to thank Sprite3, who saw a half-hearted attempt at what became this story long before Ida and offered much needed constructive criticism that I still consult to this day.

* * *

**Outsmarting a Fox**

"_The trouble is, Father, I don't know when to think like Zorro or when to act like myself or what's expected of me. I don't know anymore._"

—Don Diego de la Vega, "An Affair of Honor"

**Chapter 1  
"A Man of Letters"**

**Fuentes de Oñoro, Spain  
****On the Portuguese border**

The sun's warm golden rays glinted off long, thin steel blades. Two opponents danced and circled around one another, each patiently waiting for the other to make a mistake. Quick footwork kicked up tufts of dust and dirt, blown away by the gentle breezes rippling the white sleeves of the swordsmen, their arms a flash of activity. Rapiers clashed again and again, the clank of metal reverberating in the still air.

Men clad in blue jackets with red trim and grey trousers gathered to one side; men dressed in drab brown assembled across the field of play. Not a word was muttered amongst them. Rapt eyes remained affixed on the action; breaths held in anticipation.

The distinctive sound of a horse's hoof beats drawing closer was only a distant thought to the fencers. The Spaniard went on attack, lunging toward the Portuguese, who deftly parried and countered with a riposte. The back-and-forth continued fast and furiously, the King's Lancer flashing a devilish grin when he took control of the tempo.

His regiment, sensing impending victory, broke the silence with shouts of "Viva Lieutenant!" The troops huddled directly to the west voiced their own support, "Viva Capitão!"

The Spaniard allowed his challenger a counter-attack and expertly blocked it, sending the capitão's wrist twisting awkwardly to the left. With one quick move, he sent the blade flying from the man's grasp. He aimed the point of his sword squarely in his adversary's chest, sparks of mirth filling his blue eyes.

Capitão Cardozo raised his arms in defeat. "I yield."

The lieutenant lowered his weapon and walked over to the fallen blade. With skilled precision, he hooked the hilt using the tip of his rapier, flung it several feet into the air and nimbly caught it. "Your sword, Capitão," he bowed. The foreign officer nodded and accepted the gesture as he had done so many times before.

The Spaniard smiled, sheathed his weapon and removed the black leather gloves. Pulling a handkerchief from his waist, he dabbed at the droplets of sweat forming on his brow and took his uniform jacket from the private entrusted with the garment, tossing him the gloves in exchange.

"Excuse me, sir," a timid voice called out. All eyes turned to the newly arrived private dismounting the heavily lathered horse. "I bring an urgent message for Lieutenant Morales."

"I am Lieutenant Morales," the soldier answered, fastening the last button. The royal courier handed him an envelope with trembling hands. Morales smirked as he ripped it open.

"Shall we meet again tomorrow?" Cardozo inquired, now also attired in full uniform.

"I am afraid not, Capitão," Morales replied. "I have orders to depart immediately." He glanced up from the note and surveyed his soldiers. "Sergeant, you are to take charge until my replacement arrives."

"Sí, Lieutenant," the younger lancer answered hesitantly, eyes wide in astonishment.

"Is it too much to ask that the next officer will partake in such friendly competitions?" Cardozo quipped. "It makes patrolling our mutual border much more enjoyable."

Lieutenant Morales laughed as he mounted his white stallion. Tall with a lean build and dark brown hair cut shorter than was fashionable, he was a striking figure on the animal. "One can only hope." With one last salute, he spurred his horse into a gallop and rode off.

* * *

**Cádiz, Spain  
****Two weeks later**

The city built atop a small spit of earth surrounded by sea had only one entrance by land. All travelers to Cádiz had to pass through La Puertas de Tierra. The magnificent white stone structure with arched entryways and layers of defensive walls was an eclectic blend of affluence and military prowess. It was also where visitors were stopped, papers checked and bags inspected.

"Everything appears to be in order," the corporal declared, handing the document back to Morales. "The army offices are in Baluarte de la Candelaria. The easiest route to get there is to take Avenida Campo del Sur. It's a bit out of the way, but it keeps you off of the winding streets."

Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Morales nodded his thanks and urged his stallion forward. Viento responded with a snicker. "Calm down, boy. I know you don't like the big cities."

He couldn't blame the animal. Cádiz was not a place he wanted to be either, especially under the current political climate. For over a year, Spain had been engaged in a civil war within her borders. King Ferdinand VII was taken prisoner by his own troops and held under arrest. The royal was likely in one of these very buildings Morales rode past.

The lieutenant felt as if he were riding into the den of a hibernating bear. He would need to choose his words wisely, lest they become the stick poking the sleeping animal. Awakening an angry beast was the last thing he wanted to do. There was no way of knowing where a soldier's loyalties lay. Rebellion gripped the military; showing yourself as a royalist or a liberal was the quickest way to end up dead in a dark alley.

Morales snorted; here he was a lancer in the King's Army, yet his king was locked away. So, whom was he fighting for? Whose justice was he upholding?

Arriving at his destination, the officer didn't have time to ponder the thoughts any longer. The fortress—and Morales would describe it as nothing less—dominated the skyline. The stronghold bordered the sea, protected by a massive stone wall that seemed to rise from the depths with cannons and mortars aimed out over the open blue waters. Hues of pink and orange colored the sky behind it as the sun sank lower in the horizon, creating long shadows that made the structure even more imposing.

Peering inside the open gates of the protective barrier, Morales counted at least six buildings. The largest, rising four stories into the air, was complete with warning bells and parapets shielding dozens of sentries. Soldiers and sailors alike roamed the grounds.

The lieutenant inwardly groaned. Cádiz served as the main headquarters for the navy, and only the temporary home of the army. Which undoubtedly meant the sea dogs would not let any opportunity to rub it in slide.

Morales dismounted and handed his orders to a marinero stationed outside. The young man barely gave him a second look as he read over the document. "This way," the seaman announced, motioning for the soldier to follow.

"What about my horse?"

"Oh," the younger man uttered. "I will show you to the stables first."

Once he tended to Viento, they headed to a smaller building on the northern end of the courtyard. "The colonel's office is on the second floor; first door to your left." The sailor pivoted around and left before Morales could thank him.

The lieutenant stepped through the open entrance, climbed the stairs and stopped outside his superior officer's quarters. Taking a deep breath and removing his hat, he knocked sharply on the door.

"Enter."

He obeyed, saluted and stood at attention. "Lieutenant Juan Sebastian Morales reporting as ordered."

"Have a seat."

The colonel never looked up from his paperwork. Morales opted for the chair directly in front of the large desk and placed his hat on the corner of the mahogany wood. An officer's reaction to a simple gesture like this spoke volumes about his character. If one took offense to such an innocent deed, he was likely to be a pretentious fool. It was a straightforward test the lieutenant liked to perform.

Sitting with his back straight and hands clasped in his lap, Morales glanced around the small room. It was as barebones as they came. Two additional chairs were pushed off to the side and a filing cabinet was tucked under the open window opposite the door. A light breeze tinged with the scent of salt played with the flames of burning candles; the absence of dripping wax revealed they were recently lit. The walls were bare, sans the large map of Cádiz hanging behind the commanding officer.

They sat in silence for a good five minutes or so before the colonel finally put his quill down and leaned back in his chair. His eyes fell on the hat and he smiled. "Did I pass your test, Lieutenant?"

Morales chuckled. "Sí, did I pass yours?"

"Ah, so you are familiar with the advantages of silence," he observed. "I am Colonel Arturo Toledano."

"Sí, I know. Your reputation precedes you, sir," Morales said. As does that of your wife, Raquel, but he sure as hell wasn't going to say that aloud.

"Then you should know flattery won't buy you points with me." Toledano folded his arms over his chest and regarded the younger man carefully. "You made excellent time, Lieutenant. I did not expect you for another couple of days. I trust your horse did not suffer for it."

"I would never do anything to endanger Viento." Morales grinned. "He runs like the wind and probably enjoys our rides more than I do."

"That sounds familiar." The corner of Toledano's lip curled up and his expression turned reflective.

Morales had the feeling it was a joke he wasn't in on.

Toledano glanced over the papers atop his desk. "It appears you have had a most interesting career since joining the army, Lieutenant. For the past four months, you have been assigned to the presidio in Ciudad Rodrigo, correct?"

"Sí," Morales answered. "I have been leading a regiment tasked with patrolling our border with Portugal in and around Fuentes de Oñoro."

"I was not aware engaging in almost daily fencing matches with our enemy is now included as a standard part of the patrols," the colonel noted wryly.

"The term enemy is subjective, is it not?" Morales quipped. "We were allies with the Portuguese during the Peninsular War and Napoleon Bonaparte's other rampages through Europe."

"Has that sharp tongue caused you much trouble, Lieutenant?" Toledano commented, his tone of voice revealing he found the conversation entertaining.

"Surprisingly, no." Morales hid a grin. "But as for my activities, everything is in my reports."

"I am aware of that," the colonel stated matter-of-factly, "but I want to hear it from you."

Shifting his position in the chair, the lieutenant adopted a more relaxed posture and rested his elbow on the armrest. "I do not deny that I enjoy the bouts of swordsmanship, but as my reports will attest, the matches have allowed me to study the Portuguese's techniques. By doing so, I have uncovered similar weaknesses among many of the men."

"I get where you are leading with this, but the soldiers you've dueled with are only a small sampling of the Portuguese army." Toledano tilted his head in consideration. "How does this help us?"

"That type of similarity is the product of their instructors. If these twenty men share the same faults, I am certain a sizable percentage of their force does as well. We can develop a program to teach our lancers how to read and ultimately disarm their opponent. Ideally, it can be done in four or five moves, lessening the risk and increasing the reward, so to speak," Morales finished confidently. "Even Capitão Cardozo, an award winning fencer, has noticeable flaws in execution."

"It is an intriguing concept. Unfortunately, most of our soldiers do not share your skills." Toledano sighed. He arched an eyebrow and added slyly, "What keeps them from studying you?"

"I would have to lose first," Morales remarked dryly.

"Something you are not familiar with." Toledano laughed. "On the topic of fencing, I understand you graduated from the University of Seville with high marks. You even merited an invitation to the Royal Cup, but had to decline when you were assigned to Barcelona."

"My one deep regret," Morales responded wistfully.

Leaning forward, the colonel started shuffling through the stack of papers. "Let's see," he muttered, eyes scanning the words. "After Barcelona, you were transferred to various postings as you quickly moved up in rank. You received accolades in Pamplona for uncovering a smuggling ring and were awarded a medal of bravery in Zaragoza for peacefully subduing a rebel uprising." Toledano raised his head and peered at the man sitting across the desk. "This is quite an admirable service record, Lieutenant."

Morales turned his eyes downward in an effort to hide his embarrassment at the praise.

The colonel returned his focus to the file. "Puigcerdá was your longest appointment, at fourteen months. During that time, you were promoted to lieutenant and developed your, ahem, budding reputation."

Morales suppressed a smirk at the description of his activities.

Toledano settled back, folding his arms over his chest again. "This leads to my next question…"

"You want to know about the games I played with the French?" Morales replied knowingly. "I was there for just over three months when Capitán Pavia, my commanding officer…" he trailed off, trying to find a diplomatic way of putting it.

"Deserted?" Toledano offered.

"Well, it does get cold up in the Pyrenees," Morales snorted. "I was promoted immediately afterward and given command of the unit. Our duty was to patrol the border with France. Puigcerdá sits directly next to Bourg-Madame, and makes for an unusual situation."

"It seems there is something about patrolling our borders that inspires your creativity," Toledano joked.

Morales cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. "Capitaine de Rochambeau, my French counterpart, deployed a few of his soldiers to cross the border and gather information on the new officer—me. They were easily captured. Since our cuartel was in less that stellar condition and not equipped to hold prisoners, I decided to send them back to de Rochambeau."

"With a bottle of Rioja," Toledano interjected.

"With a bottle of Rioja," Morales repeated, smiling.

The colonel arched an eyebrow. "May I inquire as to why?"

Morales ran a finger along the lines of his goatee and mustache to hide his amused features. "The citizens of the two neighboring towns are friendly with one another and we have maintained a civil relationship with the French army stationed there during times of peace. It's easy for our men to become complacent under such conditions, so I took this opportunity to keep them sharp."

Toledano pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

The lieutenant detected his superior's shoulders softly rising and falling with the gesture. Stifling a laugh, he continued, "The capitaine was intrigued by this move and sent an invitation requesting a meeting at a local tavern that was deemed neutral grounds. The proprietor of the establishment was a Spaniard and his wife French. De Rochambeau was an amiable fellow, so I proposed a small challenge. We would try to infiltrate one another's camps and see who comes out the victor. No harm would be done to the soldiers that were captured and we would promptly exchange them."

"Your reports indicate you sent some of our lancers to be caught intentionally."

"Yes, sir, I did," Morales explained, "By allowing a few of my men to be caught, others were able to get nearer to de Rochambeau's camp, where they obtained useful information."

"I see that," Toledano observed, thumbing through the pages. "Current movements of the French troops, gossip pertaining to King Louis XVIII and even the deployments of their warships." Mischievous sparks shone in his eyes. "Do I even want to know?"

Morales could not stifle his laugh this time. "We met regularly at the tavern to discuss our successes and defeats. Well, Colonel, it turns out that for a Frenchman, de Rochambeau was startlingly unable to hold his wine. A disgrace to their uniform really…"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I get the idea," Toledano interrupted. "Please proceed."

"Sorry, sir," Morales muttered sheepishly. "After a few glasses of wine, de Rochambeau started boasting about his family. His father is a général, his older brother a high-ranking member of the king's staff and his cousin an admiral in the navy. The capitaine received regular correspondence from his relatives detailing their latest accomplishments and plans. De Rochambeau would then brag about it to me—a Spaniard!"

"You missed you calling, Lieutenant. Our country made a grave mistake in not utilizing your talents as a spy," Toledano replied slyly. "Things were going rather well in Puigcerdá when you put in a request for an immediate transfer to Madrid. No additional reasons were supplied, but it was granted based on your commendable record," the colonel narrowed his eyes, "Why the request, Lieutenant Morales?"

"It was a personal matter regarding my family."

"I was under the impression your family hailed from Seville."

"Yes, they do, but my sister resides in Madrid with her husband," the lieutenant replied, trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. "She took ill and I wished to be closer to her. Is there a problem, sir?"

"No, there is no problem. After six months behind a desk in our capital, you were then transferred to your current position in Ciudad Rodrigo. I hope your sister recovered?"

"Sí, she is fine now," Morales responded slowly. "May I inquire as to the purpose of this meeting?"

"I wanted to learn what kind of man you are before I presented you with this." Toledano grinned, pulled a document from the desk drawer and handed it to Morales. "Congratulations, Capitán."

Morales simply stared at the words on the letter of promotion.

"With the new rank comes a new assignment. You have been appointed the commandante of the garrison in the Pueblo de Los Angeles," Toledano informed, pulling another document from his drawer.

"Los Angeles?" Morales repeated, at last looking up from the letter. "In California?"

"Sí," the colonel answered. "You have never been far away from Spain, have you, Capitán?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"I cannot stress enough the importance of this assignment." Toledano's voice turned solemn. "Spain has been unable to provide needed supplies and supervision to her colonies. Corruption runs rampant and the people have suffered greatly as a result. Civil unrest is growing. Mexico is fighting for independence. I am confident our forces will prevail, but if we lose her, we will also lose California."

"How does my posting have any influence on an entire land?"

"Nowhere is this corruption more evident than in Los Angeles. The pueblo has endured one crooked official after another for years. Are you familiar with Jose Varga?"

"Sí," Morales nodded. "He was the administrado who tried to sell California to the highest bidder. I was in Madrid when the news arrived. Most were shocked at the audacity of the man."

"Varga made Los Angeles his base of operations," Toledano added, emphasizing his point. "The citizens of the pueblo will be hard to win over, but we must show them that Spain has their best interests at heart. If we can convince them of our honest intentions, the sentiment will reverberate over the region. I believe you are the man who can do that."

"Gracias, sir, I am quite flattered."

"The supply officer will have new uniforms for you, Capitán. I have booked passage for you on the _Santa Lolita_. She sails in two days," the colonel explained. "The guard on duty will show you to the barracks. A galleon and her crew left port earlier this week, so you will even have private quarters during your short stay with us."

"Two days?" Morales reiterated. "But you weren't expecting me for several more days…"

"I'm familiar with your record," Toledano replied shrewdly. "I trusted you would make good time. If you did not, there is always the next ship. This isn't a problem, is it? Perhaps a señorita is awaiting your return to Puigcerdá?"

"No, sir, it is not a problem," Morales clarified. "It's just, um, my belongings are still at the presidio in Ciudad Rodrigo. There is also the matter of my horse, Viento."

"I will have your things forwarded to Los Angeles," the colonel stated. "I will also make sure your horse is well tended to. If that is all, you are dismissed."

Morales gathered his papers, rose from the chair and saluted. Picking up his hat, he headed to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to Toledano. "Sir, if I may, you were the commandante in Los Angeles, correct?"

"Yes, for a short time, until I was called to San Diego."

Morales bit his lower lip in momentary uncertainty. "Is there any truth to the rumors of a masked bandit dressed in black, a so-called ghost, riding in the hills, righting every wrong?"

"I assure you, Capitán, he is not a ghost." Colonel Toledano laughed. "And if you are the officer I believe you to be, it is unlikely the two of you will ever cross paths."

Capitán Morales nodded his gratitude and exited the office. It was dark now, the sun having disappeared from the horizon while he was with the colonel. Stopping under a burning lantern, he glanced over the papers again. His benefactor had prevailed as promised. With a small smile forming on his lips, the capitán went in search of the supply officer.

* * *

"I know, boy, I am going to miss you, too," Morales said soothingly to Viento while rubbing the horse's nose. "My ship departs tomorrow morning, but Colonel Toledano will take good care of you." Viento responded with a short neigh. "Oh, do not worry, you will like him."

"Capitán Morales?"

Juan turned to the source of the voice, unaccustomed to the new rank before his name. The same young marinero who showed him around yesterday stood at the entrance to the stables. "Sí, I am Morales."

"A message was left for you at the front gate." The seaman strolled forward, handed the sealed piece of paper to its recipient and headed back to his station.

Glancing around to make sure he was alone, the capitán ran his finger along the folds, broke the wax seal and scanned the single line of jumbled text. Quickly shoving the note into his pocket, he said goodbye to the faithful stallion and proceeded to his quarters. A soldier stood guard outside the barracks.

"Sergeant, is a map of the city readily available?" Morales inquired of him.

"Sí, Capitán, I will get it for you," the stocky man replied, disappearing into a small alcove just inside the building's entrance. He returned a few minutes later with the requested item.

"Gracias," Morales nodded. Once in his room, he pulled the message from his pocket and pressed it flat on the desk. Taking a seat, he pulled out a blank sheet of paper from the drawer. He dipped the quill lying on the smooth writing surface into the bottle of ink and began scribbling away. Ten minutes later, he held up the decoded message in his hands.

The capitán spread the map out on the desk. His fingers traced the printed lines and his eyes skimmed the street names until he found the chosen location. Morales peered out the window and glanced at the clock by the bed. Three hours until dark… Four hours until the meeting…

He lit a candle and burned both the original and decoded messages. When they were no more than ashes, Morales finished transferring the contents of his saddlebags and new uniforms to the standard-issue army trunk. Still three hours until the meeting…

Tired of waiting around, the capitán returned the map to the sergeant and started exploring the city. The corporal who greeted Morales at La Puertas de Tierra wasn't joking about the winding avenues. Narrow cobblestone streets snaked their way between homes and businesses, widening into large open plazas. As dusk settled in, lanterns were lit and hung from buildings, creating soft shadows in snug confines.

Cádiz was not at all what Capitán Morales expected. Once blockaded by the British and then engaged in fierce battle with invading French troops, it was far more prosperous than he could have ever imagined. Houses and shops were adorned with fresh coats of colorful paints; large panes of glass allowed those strolling by to view the merchandise within. Other windows were embellished with rich shades of stained glass.

The affluence easily rivaled that of Madrid or Seville. There were no obvious signs of past battles or a civil war being waged. Anything could be purchased—books, cigars, pottery, paintings, clothing—the list went on and on. Watchtowers rose from the homes so the merchants could spy trade ships coming into port and snag the best deals.

Bustling taverns on every corner were brimming with customers. Scents of spicy cigars and cheap wines wafted out open doors intermingling with strums of guitars. People genuinely nodded and greeted Morales as he strode past and the capitán returned the friendly gestures.

It wasn't until he meandered through the fourth plaza that the darker underbelly of the city materialized. The lanterns became fewer and Morales found himself increasingly relying on the moonlight to find his way. Breezes off the seawater felt cooler as the warm flickering glows faded behind him.

Buildings were crumbling. Gaping holes, the results of mortar shells, were visible in the darkness. Instead of large glass panes, windows were boarded up. The streets were equally neglected. Cobblestones were displaced and he had to cautiously mind his steps. Only a small number of vagabonds loitered around this part of town.

This is what the capitán expected upon his arrival.

He continued along the broken path, looking for signs on the dilapidated structures to indicate if he was still heading in the right direction. Finally spotting a worn number painted on a dwelling, he breathed a sigh of relief and kept going. A few minutes later, he located the abandoned pottery shop.

Glancing over his surroundings to verify he was alone, Morales walked around to the rear of the store and knocked sharply. With a small squeak, the door opened. He entered, shutting it behind him.

"Did anyone see you?" a voice asked.

"No," Morales answered. Stale, dusty air assaulted his senses and he coughed to clear his nasal passages. He surveyed the dingy, scarcely lit room. A battered table and two chairs were pushed off to the side, sitting on a filthy, stained rug. An object lay atop the table, but it was masked in shadows. He scoffed at the peeling paper and chipping paint on the walls. Another door was on the opposite side of the room and the capitán assumed it led to the storefront. This area was obviously the former purveyor's living quarters… if you could call this living.

"How quaint," Morales quipped, turning to face the other man who was holding a candle.

"Can you not hold that tongue of yours just this once, Juan?"

"You are the second person to comment on my tongue in as many days," Morales remarked jovially. "I did not think we would see each other before my ship sailed."

"I've been staying in San Fernando for the past week awaiting your arrival." He waved at the capitán's new uniform. "I see your promotion went through as planned."

"Sí," Morales nodded, "but you can wipe that smirk off your face. I would have made capitán on my own in due time just fine without any assistance."

"I don't doubt it, Juan," the man grinned. "Let us get down to business." He sat at the table and placed the taper on the rough wooden surface. Morales followed and took the chair opposite him. "Some reading material for the long journey ahead," he said, sliding the object—a briefcase—toward the capitán.

Morales removed the bundle of papers and thumbed through them. The lighting was too dim to make out the words, but then he already knew what the documents contained. He slid them back into the protective leather case. "Are you forgetting I am the one who collected these records?"

"Of course not, but you need to have them with you; to know them backwards and forwards," the man explained. "Everything is going smoothly so far. Once you arrive in San Diego, you must find time to make a stopover in San Pedro. The little old man who ran the customs house was named Guerrero. He should still have the letters we previously discussed."

"If he is still alive," Morales commented dryly.

The man ignored the remark and continued. "I will join you shortly. I cannot take the chance of being seen in California too soon if our plan is to work. That will also give you time to do your job in Los Angeles, Commandante," he bowed his head, eyes flashing with roguish sparks.

"I understand," Morales said in irritation. "We have been through all of this before."

"He pretends to be a poet—an inept swordsman—but I now have proof it is all an act," the man bit back angrily. His voice softening a bit, he added with a slight hint of desperation, "I need to know." Silence filled the room for a long moment. "Juan, you are the only one I can trust with this."

"I will not fail you," Morales announced firmly. Standing up, he gathered the briefcase in his left hand and walked around the table. He placed his right hand on the other man's shoulder. "I know how much this means to you. I will not fail," he repeated. "You have my word; my blood."

The man stood and their eyes locked in deep understanding and a silent pact was formed. A short embrace followed. This was not about revenge; this was about restoring a family name. Yes, his king was locked away and his country was at war with itself, but Morales recognized where his duty lay. He knew what justice was—whom he was fighting for. The capitán started to silently leave when a voice calling out stopped him.

"Vaya con Dios, Juanito."

Morales, hand on the doorknob, turned around smiling. "I am looking forward to this." With that, he was gone. After extinguishing the candles, the other man departed the rear of the abandoned pottery shop.

Little did they know, a third figure lurking in the front room overheard everything.

* * *

**San Diego, California  
****Five months later**

Land.

Solid, dry land.

Relief washed over a weary and sea-logged Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales as the _Santa Lolita_ sailed into the harbor. The landscape was a blessing for his sore eyes. White sandy beaches glistened under the sun's warm, golden rays. Beyond the shoreline were rolling green hills. Wispy clouds brushed the peaks of distant mountains. Dirt and trees had never looked so good.

When the ship finally docked, the capitán was one of the last passengers to disembark. As a proud lancer in the King's Army, it would not be befitting of his rank to exhibit wobbly legs in front of the others. Therefore, when the crowd dispersed, he gathered a few things and shakily made his way down the gangplank.

A sergeant tentatively approached the wharf. "Capitán Morales?"

Juan tried to steady his swaying knees. "Sí."

"You don't look so good," the sergeant remarked lightheartedly.

"I am in the army, not the navy," Morales bit back, glaring at the soldier.

"Sorry, sir," he spluttered and immediately saluted. "I am Sergeant Pedro Gonzales. We received word you might be aboard the _Santa Lolita_ and the commandante instructed me to escort you to the presidio."

"Carry on, Sergeant," Juan replied, returning the salute, "and please forgive my earlier petulance. The long voyage at sea did not agree with me. It didn't help that we hit a few patches of rough weather."

Gonzales gawked at him as if he had gone mad.

"What did I say to elicit such a response?" he asked wryly.

"Sorry, sir," the sergeant began.

"Quit apologizing to me," Morales waved him off.

"Sor… Well, sir, it's not everyday that a senior officer asks for my forgiveness," Gonzales stated.

Morales laughed. "I am still new to the rank. Give me time to get settled in and I will be happy to chew you out all day long and not display a drop of remorse. I'll even find a few unpleasant tasks to punish you with."

"Will you lose the sense of humor, too?" Gonzales added daringly.

"I hope not. Since I am such a poor example, I will let you in on a little secret. If our circumstances were reversed, I'd find your misery equally amusing." Morales grinned. "Lead on, Sergeant."

Gonzales walked and Morales staggered to the hitching post at the harbor's entrance. Juan smiled widely when his escort stopped in front of two horses.

"I hope you don't mind riding," the sergeant said. "Once your luggage has been inspected at customs, it will be transferred to the presidio. I didn't see the need for a wagon."

"I have been cooped up in a tiny cabin for months," Morales responded, rubbing the animal's nose with his free hand and relishing the contact. "Being in the saddle is just what I need." He removed the briefcase tucked under his arm and secured it in the saddlebag.

"It's easy to tell you're fresh off the boat," Gonzales noted. "Not many officers in California carry those."

"Just my orders and some reading material for the voyage," Morales clarified. Untethering the reins, he swung onto the horse's back. "Damn, I've missed this."

"The road leading from the harbor is La Playa Trail. It spans the coastline of the peninsula and will take us to el Presidio Reál de San Diego. The cuartel is a couple of miles inland, situated on top of a bluff overlooking the bay," Gonzales explained, pointing to the northeast. "The main city fans out at the base of the hill."

Morales nodded and they urged their horses into a steady trot. The harmonious rhythm of the two-beat gait was more soothing to his ears than the strums of a finely tuned guitar. Hoofs kicked up small puffs of dirt and the sweet aroma of fresh earth drifted up to his nose. For the first time in nearly half a year, Juan truly felt… alive.

As they neared San Diego, Morales' eyes fell on the presidio above. "I understand the cannons aimed at the bay, but what threat is out east?"

"Indians."

"Indians?" the capitán repeated in surprise. "Do you have many problems with them?"

"No, not really," the sergeant shrugged, "When the area was first settled, there were uprisings among the natives. Most of those attacks were aimed at the mission. These days, everything is quiet, but the government insists keeping a few cannons aimed at the Kumeyaay will keep them in line. Truth is, they probably won't fire and even if they did, we don't have the ammunition to arm them."

The capitán shook his head; Colonel Toledano was not exaggerating when he said Spain had neglected her colonies. How could the king allow his citizens and army to be so vulnerable?

When they arrived at the main gates of the presidio, Sergeant Gonzales waved to the lone guard on duty and they were allowed to pass without stopping. Security was definitely more relaxed here in California, Morales mused.

Dismounting, the capitán felt the wobbliness return to his legs and silently cursed. Handing the reins to a private tending the stables, he collected his briefcase and followed Gonzales to the commandante's office as best he could without stumbling. The sergeant announced the new officer's arrival and was excused.

"Ah, Capitán Morales," the commandante greeted, "it is good to finally meet you. I'm Capitán Candelario Zambrano. Please have a seat." The pudgy and visibly smaller man remained parked behind the desk and motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the furniture.

Morales obliged and set his hat on the corner of the desk. Zambrano didn't even notice; the man was completely oblivious. "I have a copy of my orders," he started to fish the documents from the leather attaché.

"Oh, that's not really necessary," Zambrano offered, "but as long as you have them, I may as well take a look." He took the offered papers, barely glanced at the words and handed them back.

Was there any security at all around here? Morales started to open his mouth, but quickly shut it. It was no use getting off on the wrong foot with the first official he spoke with.

"I will have the carriage ready so you can leave for Los Angeles tomorrow morning. I am sure you are eager to assume your new duties," Zambrano said earnestly. "I remember what it was like taking over my first command twen… ah, no need to go into details. Let us just say it was a few years ago."

Morales smiled. "Actually, sir, after five months at sea, I would prefer to ride."

"That is fine by me," the commandante stated, clearly fond of this suggestion. "A proper escort for the carriage will tie up my lancers and horses for over a week. This way, I only lose two or three men."

"Is an escort really necessary? As I understand it, El Camino Reál should take me directly to Los Angeles."

"Nonsense, my boy," the older officer admonished. "I am not about to let a tenderfoot get lost under my watch. Besides, an officer traveling alone is a prime target for bandits in the hills."

"Very well, I shall bow to your expertise on the matter," Morales complimented to the best of his abilities. "If it's no trouble, I would like to make a quick stopover in San Pedro." They shared rank; hence, there was no need for Juan to get permission, but it was always wise to have an ally in a new land.

"I see no problem with that," Zambrano noted, eating up the flattery. "When your luggage arrives, get what you need and I will have it forwarded on the stagecoach. It will be waiting for you in Los Angeles."

"Gracias, sir," Morales nodded.

"Sergeant Gonzales will show you around during your stay with us."

Morales expressed his gratitude again, rose from the chair, tucked the briefcase under his arm and picked up his hat. It was time to pay a visit to the best cantina in town and eat a real meal, not that barely edible grub they passed off as food on the ship. He had one foot out the office when the older man stopped him with a question.

"By the way, what's in San Pedro?"

"Last I heard, an old friend was residing there." Morales grinned. "I'd like to drop in and say hello."

* * *

**San Pedro, California  
****Three days later**

"There is an inn just up ahead," Sergeant Gonzales suggested as the trio of soldiers rode along Avenida el Pacífico. He glanced off to his left at the surf hitting the sandy beach. "Getting tired of the harbor views yet, Capitán?"

"I don't mind it that much," Morales replied with a wide grin, "just so long as I am on the ground and not the deck of a ship. I could do without the overcast skies, though. I thought California was a sunny land. It's been cloudy since we left San Diego."

"It's been a wet year," Gonzales said. "Some say we've been blessed, but if you ask me, that blessing is short lived. All this green has to die out eventually. When it does, it will become kindling for wildfires."

Morales turned his head back and gazed at the lush growth covering the hills. A shudder ran up his spine as he thought of those very hills alit in uncontrollable flames, with thick, dark smoke settling on the towns below, choking the citizens. He silently prayed it would not come to that.

Stopping in front of a large two-story building, the capitán tossed a few coins to Gonzales. "I am going to try tracking down my friend. Secure us a few rooms and have a drink on me while you're waiting."

"Gracias, Capitán," Gonzales waved as Morales continued down the street.

The private who scarcely uttered a word during their travels finally spoke up when he thought his superior was out of earshot. "Hey, Sergeant, maybe we should request transfers to Los Angeles. He's not so bad for a capitán."

"Ah, but he's new to the rank. Give him some time and he will be like the others. Or so he tells me."

Morales chuckled at the droll exchange. After asking for directions, he located the customs house without difficulty. It was a broad, single story structure overlooking the docks. Dismounting his horse and tethering the reins, he entered through the front door. A young man, his nose stuck in a pile of papers, sat at the far end of a long counter that divided the room.

"Buenas tardes," Morales greeted.

The startled attendant looked up. "What can I do for you, Capitán?"

"I am looking for a Señor Guerrero."

"That's me."

"I'm sorry," Morales smiled, "but the gentleman I'm looking for would be much older. He was in charge of customs here about two years ago."

"Ah, you probably want my uncle," the man said, returning the smile. "His health hasn't been very good lately, so he left me in charge last year. His house is a few miles down the road if you'd like to pay him a visit. I am sure he would enjoy the company."

"That would be great."

"Here, let me draw you a quick map." He pulled a blank sheet of paper from under the counter, dipped the nib of a quill into a bottle of ink and began scribbling away. "Just stay on the road out there," he pointed at the window, "and when it forks two miles north, keep to your far right. It's the small adobe house with a large tree outside."

"Gracias," Morales nodded, taking the map.

Keeping his horse at a walk through the active streets, it took about twenty minutes to arrive at Guerrero's home. Knocking on the door, he waited for a response. When no one answered, he pounded a bit harder.

"Keep your shirt on," hollered a gruff voice. The door swung open. A tiny, feeble old man with wisps of fine gray hair atop a balding head stood in the doorway. His posture was slouched, and even if stood tall, Juan doubted the man would come to his shoulders. "What do you want?"

"My name is Capitán Mora–"

"I didn't ask for your name," Guerrero cut him off. "I asked 'what do you want?' Doesn't the army teach you boys to listen anymore?"

Juan had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. The old man's frail appearance was a stark contrast to his ornery demeanor. He supposed that if you live to be that old, you had a right to be cranky. "Yes, sir, they teach us to listen. I understand you may be in possession of letters intended for Los Angeles."

Guerrero eyed the officer suspiciously. "Who told you that?"

"Licenciado Pina."

"I thought he was arrested."

"That is why I am here," Morales responded cryptically.

The old man cautiously studied the stranger standing before him. With a loud humph, he slowly stepped back and motioned for the officer to enter. Closing the door, he hobbled to the other side of the room with the assistance of a cane and lowered his creaky body into a chair. "Sit down," Guerrero grumbled.

Morales removed his hat and opted for the couch facing his host. "Do you still have them?"

"Of course I do," he huffed. "I was paid too much money to toss them away. Never quite grasped why they were worth so much, but I'm not about to get on the bad side of a lawyer."

"Well, where are they?" the capitán inquired.

Guerrero crooked his head disbelievingly. "You are not from around here, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?" Morales raised an eyebrow.

"You're too damn polite," Guerrero cackled, slapping his knee, obviously finding the idea of a courteous army officer a novelty. "I'll go fetch them." As he struggled to his feet, Juan moved to help, but the old man snapped irritably, "Get back! I'm perfectly capable of managing by myself." Several minutes later, he finally disappeared from sight into another room.

More minutes ticked away and the capitán debated on whether to check up on his host. He started to rise from the couch when he heard the soft thumps of the cane and shuffling feet. Guerrero leisurely hobbled back into the sala. With rickety hands, he gave a small bundle of letters to his guest.

"Is this it?" Morales asked skeptically.

"Now you sound like Pina," Guerrero retorted, settling into his chair again. "What were you expecting?"

"More than this…"

"Do you even know how the mail system works in these parts?"

Morales shrugged. "Honestly? No."

"The army uses soldiers to deliver messages between presidios and to headquarters in Spain. The same is true for the church, only it's the friars who act as couriers. As for the rest of the people, most of them can't read and write, and that includes many of the hacendados, but they'll never admit to it. The dons who are literate send correspondence to friends and relatives by way of the stagecoach. The only letters to pass through the customs offices are the ones sent by ship, usually to and from Spain."

Morales raised a hand to his chin and stroked his goatee. "What if a letter intended to a recipient in Los Angeles arrives on a ship docking in Monterey or San Francisco?"

"We are supposed to sort them on arrival and send them to their respective port of customs, where they will be distributed," Guerrero snickered. "If you want to make sure your message gets to the right place, especially the ones coming to California, the sender in Spain had better put it on a ship going to the right port or it may never be seen again."

"You said I sounded like Pina," Morales observed. "How many times did he stop by to take delivery?"

"Just once, that was maybe three weeks after he first approached me to hold the mail to Los Angeles. He wasn't too happy when there were only four or five letters. Muttered something about useless gossip…" Guerrero laughed. "He dropped a bag of gold coins on the counter and instructed me to keep holding all inbound correspondence, but he never came back to collect any of it."

"And no one else made inquiries?"

"No."

Morales fanned the edges of the folded papers with his thumb. "This must be all of them," he muttered more to himself than the old man, but Guerrero's hearing was in better condition than his feeble body.

"Of course that's all of them," Guerrero bit back defensively. "It was a year from Pina's last visit to the time of his arrest. During that period, seven or eight ships from our mother country docked in San Pedro's harbor. I wasn't quite sure what to do with those when he and that commandante were hauled away."

"But you did keep them," Morales interjected slyly, waving the slim stack of papers tied with a string.

"Around that time, my nephew came to help me, so I started redelivering the incoming post. Didn't need to get him involved with the doings of a crooked attorney… Since I was paid very well to hold on to those," he pointed to the bundle in the capitán's hand, "I kept them. Like I told you before, I'm not about to get on a lawyer's bad side—even if that lawyer is in chains."

"Well, I shall not take up any more of your time." Morales rose from the couch, grabbed his hat and bowed to his host. "Gracias, Señor Guerrero."

"Capitán, wait," suspicion dripped from the old man's voice, "Why is it that you know of these letters, but nothing else of them? How did you say you know Licenciado Pina?"

Morales flashed his most charming smile. "I never said I knew Pina, now did I?" With a salute, he exited the house leaving a highly puzzled—and slightly fearful—occupant behind.

Returning to the inn, Juan slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and located his room. Locking the door, he removed the bundle of papers and cut the string fastening them together. While shuffling through the folded pieces of mail, he pulled out eight of interest. Breaking the wax seals, his eyes quickly scanned the words. Morales tossed away two messages written by friends onto the bed.

The corners of Juan's lips curled up devilishly and sparks of mirth filled his eyes as he read the remaining six. Folding them back up, he securely tucked the letters addressed to Don Alejandro de la Vega from his son Diego into the briefcase.

It was time to have supper with the sergeant and the private.


	2. Chapter 2

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 2  
"The Arrival"**

**Los Angeles, California**

For most of the citizens of the small pueblo, twilight signified the end to a hard day's work. For Zorro, however, it symbolized the beginning. The black clad figure quickly picked up on the trail of the three bandidos who brazenly robbed Don Cornelio Esperon outside his home earlier in the afternoon. It was the second such attack in a week. This same group was believed to be responsible for a similar theft at the rancho of Don Alfredo Rivera two days ago, leaving the hacendado badly beaten.

Torrential rains moved in just before sunset after the first assault, battering the terrain and washing away any tracks the fox might find useful. But tonight, skies were clear and the bandidos could not hide from the masked avenger. Hoof prints in the soft ground leading away from the main road revealed the riders and their mounts headed south. It was not long before Zorro and Tornado found their camp. With stealth and agility more befitting a cat than a fox, he slipped from the saddle and crept closer.

The men gathered around a small fire counting their ill-gotten gains. When one of the bandits stood and moved to check on the horses secured on the far side of the fire, Zorro seized the opportunity. He quickly and quietly proceeded around the perimeter of the camp, snuck behind the man and rendered him unconscious with the hilt of his sword. After making sure the bandit was securely bound and gagged, the fox set his sight on the others.

"I do not believe that money belongs to you, Señores. I would strongly suggest returning it."

The two men kneeling next to the warm flames twisted at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. "It's Zorro!" they cried in unison. The smaller of the men reached for his pistol as he rose to his feet, but a crack of the masked man's whip swiftly disarmed him. He turned and attempted to run.

Tornado came rushing forward out of the darkness. Rearing up and neighing loudly, the stallion blocked the fleeing bandit's path. Color draining from his face, the man fell backwards to the ground and tried to shield his face from the devil of an animal. "Ballesteros, help! Save me!"

Drawing his sword, Ballesteros ignored the shrieks of his compañero and charged at Zorro. He swung the blade, wildly slashing at empty air, and lunged forward with too much weight on his front leg. The fox flashed his white teeth, easily parried the attack with his rapier and sent his opponent sprawling to the dirt.

"I was hoping you would be a better swordsman than a thief,"—Zorro bowed—"My mistake."

Growling, Ballesteros jumped to his feet and attacked again. The weapon went flying from his grasp after the first clash. With a flick of the wrist, Zorro cut his customary 'Z' into his challenger's jacket. "This is for Don Alfredo," he hissed before slugging Ballesteros hard across the jaw, knocking him out cold.

Shaking his head, Zorro focused his attention on the commotion to his side and chuckled. "Good boy," he praised, patting Tornado on the neck. With sword still in hand, he coiled the whip and fastened it to the saddle. He pointed the tip of the rapier at the cowering bandit. "Now for you, Señor."

"It was all his idea," the man replied looking up, pointing to Ballesteros, "and Machado's."

"What is your name?"

"F–Fidel," he stammered.

"Then you will not mind helping me to deliver them to the cuartel, Señor Fidel."

"The cuartel?" he repeated, swallowing hard.

Zorro slashed a 'Z' into his shirt.

Fidel's eyes widened. "Sí, I will help."

With the two unconscious bandidos slung over the backs of their horses and Fidel's hands tied securely to his own mount's saddle horn, Zorro led the group back to Los Angeles and into the possession of the guard on duty—a sleepy Corporal Reyes.

"Be sure this money is returned to its rightful owners," the fox advised, tossing the lancer the heavy bag of stolen pesos. He saluted and disappeared into the night before Reyes could even call out 'Zorro!'

* * *

Low murmurs from a handful of customers taking refuge from the late-morning sun filled the air of the tavern during the lull between breakfast and lunch. Don Diego de la Vega nodded to the proprietor as he strode toward an empty table by the window. He chuckled softly and winked to Bernardo, his trusted friend and manservant, who stood at the bar. In a few moments, the two soldiers scurrying across the plaza would be his guests.

"Ah, Don Diego," Sergeant Garcia's booming baritone voice echoed across the large room as he entered the establishment, "I thought that was your horse outside."

"Buenos días, Sergeant," the caballero greeted from his seat at the table. "And to you, too, Corporal," he added. Reyes stepped out from behind the bulky frame of the acting commandante.

"What are you doing back there, Corporal?" Garcia questioned, surprised to learn Reyes followed him.

"You told me to tell you if Don Diego rode into the pueblo."

"Shh, I know what I told you," Garcia admonished, "but why did you tag along?"

"I want to eat, too," Reyes answered simply.

Diego raised a hand to his mouth to hide his laugh. If Garcia ever pursued Zorro with the tenacity he did for a bottle of wine and a plate of food, the fox might have real trouble. Thankfully, the sergeant had his priorities in order. As did the don, he needed to learn more about the new capitán assigned to the cuartel. "Sergeant Garcia, would you and the corporal care to join me for an early lunch?"

"We would be delighted to," Garcia answered enthusiastically, Reyes' earlier indiscretion now forgotten. Pushing past the corporal, and seeing Bernardo at the bar, he waved and called out, "Hola, little one."

When the lancers claimed their seats, Carlotta approached and took their orders. Diego noticed the frown on her pretty face aimed at Garcia, who remained oblivious to her disapproving look as he ordered his wine. The don briefly wondered what spurred it. When she returned with the bottle and three goblets, he got his answer.

"Really, Sergeant, drinking this early in the morning," Carlotta reprimanded. "Even for you, this is a little excessive. What if our new commandante arrives? What kind of example are you setting?"

"Oh, it is not that early and you do not care if I drink." Garcia lifted the freshly filled glass to his lips. "You are still mad at me for arresting Señor Crane a few months ago."

"Ooh," she huffed, her cheeks growing pink with fury, before storming back to the kitchen.

"You should not get her so angry when she is serving our food," Reyes chimed in.

Garcia opened his mouth to protest, but abruptly closed it. "You have a good point there, Corporal," he finally agreed after contemplating the situation. "Perhaps it would be for the best if we switch meals."

Diego raised his goblet to his lips and exchanged an amused glance with Bernardo, who was also having a difficult time keeping a straight face. At least Carlotta gave him an excellent reason to discuss the new officer. "Are you not being a little harsh with the señorita, Sergeant? Everyone in the pueblo is anxious to learn about Capitán Morales. The commandante's luggage arrived on the stagecoach the other day, yet we still do not have a commandante!"

"Ah, that is true, Don Diego," Garcia nodded, "but there was a note attached explaining his absence."

"Oh?" the caballero prodded when the sergeant's eyes drifted to the red liquid swirling in the glass. "It is nothing dangerous, I hope. There is talk the remaining Rebatos may be regrouping."

"It is nothing like that," Garcia laughed, taking a drink. "He is stopping to visit an old friend on the way."

"That is interesting," Diego noted. "Any mention of this friend's name?"

"No." The sergeant shrugged, topping off his glass with more red liquid. "Capitán Morales has never been to California before, so it is probably a soldier he knew in Spain."

"Why does it have to be a soldier?" Reyes asked. "We know people not in the army."

Garcia nodded his head in agreement. "Corporal Reyes is right. His friend may not be in the army."

Both lancers wore the same happy expression revealing how pleased they were with their combined logic. Diego resisted the urge to massage his temple, opting instead for a long sip from his goblet. Writing a letter to Madrid would be a faster, more efficient way to learn information on Morales.

"If he does not arrive soon, we will have to transport the prisoners to Santa Barbara." Reyes frowned.

"Sí, we will," Garcia sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. "The prisoners," he muttered again and his round face suddenly brightened. "Oh, Don Diego, I must tell you about last night! I caught the bandidos who robbed Don Cornelio and Don Alfredo!"

"This is wonderful news," Diego exclaimed.

"You did?" Reyes asked, staring disbelievingly at his superior.

"Of course I did, Corporal," Garcia scolded. "Don't you remember?"

"I think all that wine has gone to your head, Sergeant, it was Zorro–"

Garcia cut him off, "I almost caught that rascal, too."

"But how?" Reyes argued. "You were sleeping–" There was a minor commotion under the table and the corporal let out a pained, "Ouch, you kicked me!"

"I would never do such a thing, Corporal. You must have kicked the table leg by accident," the sergeant reasoned. "Now, be quiet and let me tell Don Diego the story."

"Story it is," Reyes muttered under his breath, nursing his bruised shin.

Annoyance flashed in Garcia's eyes. "What was that, Private?"

"I did not hear anything," Reyes wisely replied.

"Good," Garcia stated. "Now, Don Diego, I was leading the patrol last night when I spotted some tracks off El Camino Real. They were made by Zorro's horse! The lancers and I…"

Diego pressed his lips together, smiled and eagerly listened to the wild tale the sergeant started to tell, but Garcia trailed off when Carlotta carried a tray loaded with food to their table. She carefully set the plates down in front of each man and went back to the bar.

Garcia looked lovingly down at his food and then swapped plates with Reyes.

"Hey!"

"Do you not like enchiladas, Private?" Garcia inquired.

Reyes' eyes narrowed in contempt, but he kept his mouth shut. Diego chuckled lightly and was about to begin dining on his own meal when he spotted Carlotta watching from her position behind the bar, complete with a mischievous grin on her lips and sparks in her eyes. What did she do?

"Sergeant, I wouldn't…" Diego warned, but he was too late. Garcia already had the tamales the corporal ordered unwrapped and a forkful of the filling shoved in his mouth. The caballero watched the soldier in anticipation. "Are you feeling all right, Sergeant?"

"Sí, Don Diego," Garcia mumbled with a full mouth. "These are delicious." He continued stuffing his cheeks when his face started to flush and he began tugging at his collar. "These are spicier than I remember," he croaked. "Too spicy. Aieee! My throat is on fire!" He snatched the nearest wine glass and downed the contents in one gulp. "Water! Water!"

All eyes in the tavern aimed on the upheaval at the table when Diego jumped to his feet and motioned for Bernardo to bring a pitcher of water. Garcia eagerly accepted the clear liquid, guzzling it down.

Carlotta approached, barely hiding a smirk. "Oh, Sergeant, why are you eating the corporal's tamales? You should know by now how he prefers them with extra hot chili peppers."

Garcia only glared wordlessly at her while Diego stifled a laugh.

* * *

"Theresa may have the hottest tamales in Monterey, but Carlotta's are the hottest in Los Angeles," Diego remarked in an amused tone as he and Bernardo untethered their horses. It took nearly thirty minutes for Garcia's throat to cool off and to finish their meals. When it came time for the caballero to return home, he left the sergeant with a fresh bottle of Madeira in the tavern.

Bernardo glanced around to make sure they were not being observed and patted the young don on the arm. He pointed to the posada, held his nose and fluttered lower to the ground.

Diego laughed. "Sí, I am surprised the sergeant did not drown with all of that water. I only wish we were able to learn more regarding our new commandante."

The mute nodded his head in understanding.

Climbing onto the saddles, the men were ready to urge their horses into a walk when Diego held his arm out to stop his companion. On the opposite end of the plaza, three unfamiliar soldiers trotted in the direction of the cuartel. Leading the trio was a man dressed in white trousers and a blue jacket, the sunlight glinting off the many medals adorning the uniform.

"It appears Capitán Morales has arrived."

The young don dismounted his Palomino and handed the reins to Bernardo. "Wait here while I alert our friend. I do not wish to see Sergeant Garcia get off on the wrong foot with his new superior officer."

Bernardo smiled and quickly traced the shape of a bottle with his hand and raised a glass to his lips.

Diego smiled, too. "Yes, he may be reluctant to leave the Madeira, but those are the sacrifices a King's Lancer must make for his sworn duty."

* * *

Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales surveyed the dusty pueblo as he directed his horse to the cuartel. Peons and merchants turned their backs to him; the few who dared look at the newly appointed officer glanced at him with suspicion shining in their eyes. Ah, but that was to be expected according to Toledano.

The gates of the cuartel were open and the private standing guard on duty barely registered a salute as the three soldiers rode through the confines of the walls. Dismounting, Morales caught a glimpse of two lancers rushing across the plaza. He shook his head in dismay; it appeared the army did not impose strict fitness requirements in California or else they were not enforced.

The bigger of the two clutched his considerable belly with both hands in a protective manner, while the smaller man trailed behind, looking as if he was ready to drop the rifle in his grasp at any moment. They came to a stop a few paces in front of Morales—or rather the sergeant stopped and the corporal ran into his backside and bounced off.

They both straightened their postures and saluted. "I am Sergeant Demetrio Lopez Garcia, the acti… well, I am not the acting commandante anymore since you are here." He continued to hold his belly with his free hand.

"Yes, Sergeant, I get the idea."

Garcia was a big man; there was no other way to put it. Morales noted they were about the same height, but the similarities ended there. His round face was covered in two day's growth of stubble; his chubby fingers smudged with dirt—or was it food?—and his breath smelled of wine.

"This is Corporal Reyes," Garcia hurriedly added.

If the sergeant was big, there was only one way to describe Reyes: droopy. He was standing at attention, yet his shoulders still sagged forward, his expression was one of disinterest and his eyes were barely visible under heavy lids. Morales briefly wondered if Reyes just returned from an all-night patrol, but he doubted it.

"At ease, lancers, I am Capitán Juan Morales, your new commandante. It has been a long journey. These two soldiers acted as my escorts from San Diego," the capitán motioned to Gonzales and Peláez, "Please show them to the barracks so they may rest. They will be departing first thing in the morning. And see to it the horses are cared for."

"Sí, mi Capitán." Garcia waved and hollered across the courtyard, "Private Sanchez, come over here."

Morales sighed; that was not exactly what he had in mind. He removed the briefcase from his saddlebag and tucked it under his arm as Garcia meted out orders in a booming voice. Sanchez started leading the animals away and the former acting commandante nudged Reyes.

"Go on, Corporal, show them to the barracks."

"Sí, Sergeant," Reyes motioned to the two visitors, "Follow me."

The group dispersed and Morales was left alone with Garcia, who rubbed his belly again. Beads of sweat formed at his brow and he appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "Are you ill, Sergeant? Your face is turning… green?"

"Oh, I am all right, I think. Water does not agree with me."

From what he knew of the fat sergeant, that was probably the best answer he was going to get. "Then you can show me around. I noticed that you have four prisoners." Morales nodded toward the jail. "What are their crimes?"

"The man in the cell to the left is Señor Munoz," Garcia explained. "He had a little too much to drink last night and Señora Munoz does not like it when her husband comes home drunk. She raises a big fuss, so I let him sleep it off here."

"That is a noble gesture, Sergeant." Morales chuckled. "What of the other three?"

The prisoners sat on the cots, their backs resting against the walls of the small cell, while nodding and speaking in hushed tones. One of the men kept his gaze trained on the new officer, stood and rested his elbows on the bars. Unaffected by the scrutiny, the capitán stepped forward and narrowed his eyes. "Why does that man have a 'Z' cut into his jacket?"

Garcia shuffled his feet and turned his eyes downward, suddenly finding something very interesting in the dirt. "Well, uh, Commandante, that is what, um, that is what Zorro does when he captures bandidos."

Morales smirked. "El Zorro, eh?"

Sergeant Garcia remained quiet as a mouse.

"I saw his wanted posters hanging in every pueblo and way station between here and San Diego. I heard many a story, too. Is it customary for a bandit to capture other bandits in California and turn them over to authorities?" The capitán's lips curled upwards. He was looking forward to matching wits with this fox.

"No," Garcia answered in a low voice, "but Zorro is not exactly an ordinary bandit. He always helps the people and never harms them. In fact, he sometimes helps the army, too."

"How quaint," Morales quipped. "The city of angels has its own dark avenging angel. We will deal with this el Zorro later. Now, what crimes are these men accused of?"

"Oh, they are bad ones, Commandante. They are responsible for robbing some of the hacendados. Poor Don Alfredo was nearly beaten to death by them," Garcia explained, finally showing some mettle.

"That is most regrettable," Morales replied. "Since such offenses are a civil matter, I trust the magistrado has been properly notified and will be handling the prosecution."

"We do not have a magistrado."

"I suppose your alcalde is making suitable arrangements then. I would like to meet him."

Garcia cleared his throat. "We do not have an alcalde, either, mi Capitán."

Morales could not contain his surprise and snapped his head in the direction of the sergeant. "Who exactly conducts the law in this pueblo?"

"You do." Garcia gaped at his superior officer with confusion etched on his face. "Los Angeles is under military command. Were you not told?"

If there was one thing the young officer despised, it was being made to look a fool. He prided himself on his intelligence, quick wit and even quicker blade. From the sergeant's tone, he inferred this set of circumstances was nothing new. Why was he not informed? Morales felt like an utter fool. "So, I am the judge, jury and executioner," he retorted in an effort to hide his frustration.

He had killed men before, both in battle and in duels of honor, but this was different. This was deeming a man on his merits, making a decision based on behavior he had not witnessed.

Damn, he should have been told.

Garcia stared at the capitán, aghast at his drollness.

"Forgive my poor sense of humor, Sergeant," he sighed. "No, I was not informed as to the full extent of my duties here. I am not ashamed to state I find them distasteful." Standing under clear afternoon skies, the sun's golden rays were becoming uncomfortably warm. "Show me to my quarters."

Nestled in the dusty cuartel and surrounded by bungling soldiers, the office was far more luxurious than the capitán could have imagined. He immediately took to the bright open space; it was a far cry from the drab, functional room his counterpart in San Diego called home. Rich carpets sat atop finished hardwood floors and fresh paint coated the walls.

A large mahogany desk with intricate carvings drew his eyes. To the right of the door was a finely upholstered couch. Removing his hat, he tossed it on a table under the window. He ran his fingers along the soft, supple leather of the chairs as he set the briefcase down.

Everything in the room spoke of wealth and taste, from the candlesticks to the silver tray beneath crystal goblets. Garcia showed him the bedroom. While not as finely furnished as the outer office, it was still a remarkable improvement over the straw cots he became accustomed to as a soldier in Spain. It sure as hell beat his cabin on the _Santa Lolita_.

When Colonel Toledano spoke of corruption, he was not kidding.

Returning to the office, Morales perched on the edge of the desk next to the briefcase. "Now, Sergeant, I am eager to learn about the state of affairs in the pueblo. How long has the army been in control?"

Garcia shuffled his feet and turned his eyes downward again, now studying the grain of the wood floor.

"Sergeant Garcia," Morales said softy, "As the new commandante, it is imperative that I be familiar with what is going on in my jurisdiction. You may speak freely with no fear of reprimands."

"Well, uh…" Garcia stammered, "The army has been the law in Los Angeles for around three years now. It was very peaceful when Capitán Linares was in charge. He was the commandante for nearly fifteen years when he retired and moved to Mexico City to live with his daughter and her husband. That is when Capitán Monastario was assigned to our garrison." His baritone voice diminished in hesitation.

"Go on, Sergeant."

"He, uh, I mean the capitán, he is…" Garcia stammered.

"Calm down, Sergeant, and spit it out."

"Capitán Monastario is the one who instituted military law, thereby stripping the alcalde of his authority and disbanding the cabildo. The alcalde died a few months after the capitán was arrested, but a new one was never appointed."

Morales grinned. "That was not so bad, was it?"

"No, it was not," Garcia agreed, looking visibly relieved. "The viceroy appointed a new commandante and a magistrado, but that did not go so well, either. Poor Capitán Melindez did not even get inside the cuartel…"

"What happened to him?" Morales asked with genuine curiosity.

"He stopped just outside the gates to give a speech and was shot."

"Shot?" Morales repeated in disbelief. "I am glad I did not stop to give a speech."

The dry remark went right over Garcia's head and he continued, "Capitán Ortega arrived right after that, but he was an imposter. He killed the real Ortega and tried to kill Señorita Cortez because she knew the real Capitán Ortega, but Zorro saved her and chased the imposter to the pueblo."

Morales quirked an eyebrow trying to follow the sergeant's long-winded explanation.

"They were fighting on the rooftops when the fake Ortega fell off and died."

"I am almost afraid to ask, Sergeant, what happened to your magistrado?"

"He attempted to kill Capitán Toledado, who was a good commandante–"

"Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Toledano," Morales interrupted.

"He is a colonel now?" Garcia said in excitement. "That is good to hear. Well, Magistrado Galindo was going to kill him when Zorro interrupted and saved the capitán's life. A fight broke out and his own man murdered him in the struggle. It turned out Señor Galindo worked for the Eagle. The Eagle is the one who tried to sell California to the highest bidder."

Listening to the wild tale, Morales reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was all so absurd. And he thought Spain had problems with their king being under arrest.

The sergeant continued rattling on, at last drawing to a conclusion when he described the governor's visit two months ago. For once, Morales did not have a sharp comeback. "So, am I to understand this Eagle fellow, Señor Varga, was shot down by his second-in-command, Señor Greco; Emissary Basilio was shot by his assistant, Capitán Mendoza; and that the governor's aide, Capitán Arrellanos, plotted with these Rebatos to assassinate him?"

"Sí, Commandante," Garcia nodded.

Spain's troubles were nothing compared to California!

"Promise me this, Sergeant," Morales crossed his arms over his chest, "you will not shoot me."

"Oh no, of course not, Commandante," Garcia replied with strong conviction. "I would never do anything like that. I have never killed a commanding officer before. It is hardly good military practice."

"I find that reassuring," Morales noted lightly as he stood and moved to stand behind the desk. "As for the bandidos in the jail cell, did you make a complete report?"

"Sí, it is in the top drawer, Commandante."

"Good, I would also like all reports dating back to the time Capitán Linares retired."

"All of them?" Garcia asked unsurely before adding, "They are in the storeroom."

"I shall also need a map of the area and copies of all the land grants for the ranchos in our district, in order to become familiar with the boundaries. During the next few days, you can take me on a tour of the terrain," Morales instructed. "There are some other documents I require as well, but start with these first and I will compile a full list."

"Sí, Commandante," Garcia sighed.

"Now, Sergeant, line up the soldiers for inspection. I will join you shortly." The hefty lancer saluted and quickly exited to carry out the orders. Juan Morales nestled in the chair, admiring the intricate carvings on the armrests that matched the desk. His fingers gently traced over the delicate grooves of the wood as the tension eased from his weary body.

Juan's blue eyes twinkled. He was going to like Los Angeles.

* * *

The soldiers were assembled in the courtyard and standing at attention when Morales joined them to make his presentation. Garcia took a position by his side, apparently not quite ready to his relegate his role as their former leader. The group was a motley one, but no worse than he had seen in Spain. Adjusting his hat to shade his eyes from the sun's glare, he began the assessment with the sergeant in tow.

Strolling down the line, Morales stopped. "Private…"

"Hernandez, sir."

"Private Hernandez, you are missing a button on your uniform."

"Sí, I know, sir."

Garcia took this opportunity to interrupt, "The army has been promising to send replacement buttons for several months, but they have not yet arrived."

"Thank you for that expository information, Sergeant," Morales said. "Is this the only uniform you have, Private?"

"No, Capitán."

"Then why are you not wearing one that meets regulations?"

"Most of my other uniforms are missing buttons, too. The good one is being laundered."

"I think we can do something about this, Private," Morales smiled. "Why do you not take the buttons from the uniform in the poorest condition and use them to repair the others?"

"That is a very good idea, Capitán!" Garcia exclaimed. "The commandante is very smart!"

While Morales valued a good sense of humor, he did not appreciate sarcasm—well, that was not entirely accurate. He did not appreciate sarcasm aimed in his direction. And he certainly would not stand for it coming from a subordinate. Spinning around to reprimand Garcia, the admiration that shone on the round face stunned him. The man was genuinely impressed by the simple suggestion!

"Gracias, Sergeant," he finally managed to voice.

Finished surveying the men under his command, he was eager to see them in action. "Lancers, pair off and form two lines facing one another." They did as ordered, Garcia matching up with Corporal Reyes.

"Now, draw your swords. We are going to execute a simple fencing drill. The men in this line," Morales indicated those to his left, "will attack with a lunge. Your opponent will parry and riposte. You will then respond with a counter-riposte. Executed successfully, there will be the sweet clang of steel-on-steel three times. Is this clear?"

They mumbled a collective 'yes' and he gave the signal to start. The result was not pretty, but went better than Morales expected. Swords did not go flying from grasps and no one was impaled. "Good, now again." Satisfied they possessed basic skills, he instructed their blades to engage in a back-and-forth play of straightforward attacks and blocks.

That is when he heard a yelp from the far end and witnessed a sword sailing through the air.

Capitán Morales covered his eyes with his hand and groaned.

* * *

"Doctor Avilla finished treating the privates and said they will be able to resume their duties in a few days. The cut on Herrera's arm is not deep, but he has instructions to keep the wound clean and apply a salve to stop infection from setting in. Rodriguez's wrist is only mildly sprained," Garcia explained after entering the commandante's office.

"That is good news, Sergeant," Morales declared, straightening the papers on his desk and resting against the back of his chair. "Have the men prepared for drills first thing in the morning."

"Drills?" Garcia repeated in trepidation. "Morning?"

"Sí, one unfortunate accident is not going to keep me from whipping this garrison into shape."

"I will have them ready," Garcia sighed.

"We will also ride out to the haciendas of Don Cornelio Esperon and Don Alfredo Rivera tomorrow," the capitán stated, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk. "Your report on the bandidos is very thorough, but there are some lingering questions I must ask before rendering judgment."

Garcia's expression turned somber. "I am glad that I had only to transport the prisoners to Santa Barbara for trial."

Morales regarded him carefully before speaking. "You are fortunate, Sergeant, that your duties as acting commandante precluded you from having to make such… distasteful decisions. If you have nothing else to report, you are dismissed."

"Drills…" Garcia muttered after saluting and turning to leave.

"Oh, Sergeant," Morales stopped him, "My carafe is empty. Please fill it with water."

"Water?" Garcia groaned. He clutched his stomach with one hand and grabbed the carafe with the other, the green shade from earlier returning to his face. "Water… drills…"

Perplexed, Morales leaned forward, propped his arms on the desk and watched the soldier slowly exit the office on wobbly knees. What exactly was Sergeant Garcia's strange affliction with water?

* * *

Stretching his arms and back, Morales took a deep breath and slowly stripped off his uniform, dressing in a fresh nightshirt from the trunk that arrived a few days prior. He lay down on the bed, and while his body was tired, his mind was still a flurry of activity. Getting up, he used the lone burning candlestick to light the lantern on the nightstand.

Fetching the briefcase from its spot next to the trunk, he pulled out the stack of letters. Settling in against fluffed pillows, he began reading.

_Dear Father,_

_ During a break from my studies, I visited Uncle Estevan in Barcelona. Bernardo remained with Marcos in Madrid to keep our friend out of trouble. There is a beautiful señorita named Lucinda he has become smitten with. Need I say more?_

_In fact, I allowed Marcos to defeat me in a playful bout of swordsmanship to win favor in her eyes. When our families meet again, do not believe a word Marcos says when he tells you this tale—he is already exaggerating it to wild lengths. He would have you believe I am the clumsiest swordsman in Madrid!_

_It was wonderful seeing Uncle Estevan again. He is just as roguish as I remembered and recites to me wonderful anecdotes of his and Mother's childhood. I have also been regaled with stories of your courtship with Mother—stories that are quite new to me. To think, my own father spent a night in jail! You must tell me more about this upon my return home._

_With love,  
__Your son, Diego_

Juan smirked at the notion of a world-class fencer being described as clumsy. He shuffled the letter to the bottom of the stack and continued reading.

_Dear Father,_

_ As the Royal Cup Invitational draws nearer, I am finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my studies. The long lectures fade from my ears as I try to imagine what the competition will be like. Oh, how I desire to know where I rank among the best fencers in Europe!_

_ It is less than a month away and the participants are beginning to arrive in Madrid. There have been some friendly contests between us where we try to size one another up, and it has been a most valuable learning experience. I have crossed blades with a Frenchman and an Englishman and there are notable differences in techniques._

_Whispers of nervousness float about, but I find that I am more eager than ever for the Invitation to commence. The excitement and anticipation flows freely in my veins. Before this letter reaches you, I will already know the outcome._

_I shall write again soon._

_Love,  
__Diego_

From these few pieces of correspondence, Juan began to feel a kinship to this Diego, even though they had never met. It was almost as if he could have written the words…

For a fleeting moment, Juan hoped they were wrong about the don.

As his eyes glanced over the handwriting again, the corners of his lips twitched in anticipation. "I am looking forward to crossing blades with you, de la Vega."


	3. Chapter 3

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 3  
"An Official Inquiry"**

"Don Cornelio's hacienda is about a mile up the road," Sergeant Garcia announced as the two soldiers on horseback trotted down the dusty trail. He shifted in the saddle and groaned.

Capitán Juan Morales chucked lightly. It came as no surprise that the early morning drills did not sit well with the sergeant. He moaned about his sore knees and aching back to anyone who would listen, only drawing quiet in the presence of the commandante. This was the most he had spoken since they departed the garrison.

After selecting a stunning milky white mare from the cuartel's stables, the capitán was eager to let her run and explore the terrain. The early afternoon sun was warm and a cooling breeze danced across his face and neck. It was a beautiful day to be in the saddle, but Morales chose to take pity on the suffering lancer and keep the ride simple.

"Is all of this land his?" he asked, surveying the wide-open country. Off in the distance, he spotted a herd of several hundred cattle grazing on the opposite side of a fence.

"Sí, Don Cornelio's rancho is the second largest in the district," Garcia replied eagerly.

Morales smirked, already sensing the answer to his next question, "Who owns the largest?"

"That would be Don Alejandro de la Vega."

Why of course, he grinned, de la Vega was the wealthiest landowner in California. It was only fitting that his rancho is the grandest. "What kind of man is Señor Esperon?"

The sergeant started the process of hauling the archived reports to his office, but there were still many left to retrieve. During a brief glance over the logs already delivered, Juan did not see any mention of the don—and he liked knowing what to expect.

"Oh, he is a good man."

"So, he has not had any problems with the law?"

"Well, uh, there was an incident with, um, Señor Basilio a couple of months ago," Garcia stammered.

"Basilio," Morales muttered, "Is he the one who was shot by his assistant, Capitán Mendoza?"

Garcia nodded. "Sí, he is the one. The emissary arrested Don Cornelio on charges of treason, but he later declared him innocent at a hearing." He kept his gaze pointed straight ahead and did not elaborate.

Morales had the distinct feeling the sergeant deliberately omitted a few important facts, but he did not have time to press the lancer on the matter. They were nearing the hacienda and it was obvious the don was found not guilty or the crown would have seized his rancho. Juan made a mental note to remember to ask Garcia for further details later on and to review the official reports on the affair.

"In other words, Señor Esperon will not be the most accommodating host to government officials," the capitán commented while pulling his horse to a stop.

"Oh, no," Garcia protested. "Don Cornelio will be most gracious, as long as you do not try to arrest him or steal his home."

Dismounting his mare, the capitán tethered her reins on the hitching post outside the main gate and looked to his companion, who was still in the saddle. "Please, Sergeant, sometime today."

"But, Commandante, shouldn't someone stay with the horses?"

"You said it yourself, Sergeant," Morales rebuffed, "Don Cornelio is a good man who owns quite a bit of property. I trust our horses will be safe outside his hacienda."

Garcia exhaled noisily and his shoulders slumped forward in disappointment.

"Cheer up, Sergeant," Morales encouraged. "After a few weeks of daily exercises, you will feel much better." He reached up and patted the man's ample girth. "It may even help you to reduce a little."

Garcia looked from his commanding officer to his belly. "If this is how it feels to reduce, I am happy just the way I am." He tried rising up and swinging his leg over the animal, but let out a sharp cry of pain and settled back down.

Morales shook his head and covered his eyes with a gloved hand. He could not bear to watch the display. Instead, the commandante focused his attention on retrieving a leather-bound folder from his saddlebag.

A loud thud and subsequent grunt caused him to rethink his earlier orders. How was the aching sergeant ever going to get back on the animal? For that matter, how did he manage the first time? Tucking the folder under his left arm, Morales concluded droopy Corporal Reyes likely suffered the brunt of that task. He would have to see to it Reyes received bonus pay for going above and beyond the call of duty.

Turning to face the sergeant, Morales sighed. Garcia brushed the dirt from the seat of his trousers. "Let's go," he instructed. Upon opening the gate, a servant greeted the two soldiers and showed them the way to the sala. The hefty lancer did his best to alleviate his sore knees by waddling across the patio.

Glancing over his shoulder, Morales did a double take. Resisting the urge to slap his forehead, he leaned back and whispered in an authoritative tone, "You are a sergeant in the King's Army. Walk like it."

The soldiers were left alone in the luxury of the living room while the servant alerted Don Cornelio of his guests. Removing his hat and gloves, Morales set them and the folder on a table by the window. Strolling around the spacious room, exquisite Venetian wine glasses, French candleholders and English silver service attracted his interest.

Picking up one of the Italian goblets from the dining table, he stepped closer to the window, allowing the sunlight to catch on the crystal, and studied the intricate carvings. Returning it to its place, Morales noticed Garcia standing near the door with pure apprehension etched on his round face. "Afraid I would drop it, Sergeant?" he quipped.

"Oh, no, Commandante, it is nothing like that."

Folding his arms over his chest, Morales furrowed his brow trying to decipher this strange soldier. He was beginning to like him, despite the odd quirks. "Then what has you so–"

The question died on his lips as the main door to the sala opened. Garcia shuffled aside, allowing a pretty young lady in a dark blue silk dress to enter. Juan immediately admired her elegance and refinement, returning her warm smile with one of his own. Following her was an older, distinguished caballero clad in a fine wool suit. He was a few inches shorter and a few pounds heavier than Morales, but he looked every bit the affluent hacendado. They paused to greet the sergeant before welcoming the newest citizen of the pueblo.

"I am Cornelio Esperon and this is my daughter, Moneta," he motioned to the brunette beside him. "You must be our new commandante. Welcome to our home."

"Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales at your service," the officer bowed, "I am pleasured to make both your acquaintances, Don Cornelio, Señorita. I only wish my visit was under more pleasant circumstances."

"Oh?" Cornelio raised an eyebrow.

"This is an official inquiry," Morales stated. "I have some lingering questions regarding the robbery two days ago. The suspects are currently behind bars and a decision must be made as to their fate."

"I will be happy to assist you in any way I can," Cornelio offered, "Please have a seat." He instructed the servant who quietly trailed them into the sala to bring a bottle of wine.

"If you do not mind, Don Cornelio, I would prefer to stand," Garcia said, shifting his back uncomfortably.

Moneta tilted her head in concern. "Sergeant, you do not look so well. Are you feeling all right?"

Morales chuckled and she turned to him with suspicious eyes. "My apologies, Señorita, it was not my intention to make light of the sergeant's discomfort. Our early morning drills did not agree with him." The capitán motioned to his subordinate, "Do sit down, Sergeant, the rest will do you good."

"If you insist, Commandante," Garcia relented. He sank into a nearby chair with a satisfied 'aah.'

When the wine arrived, Cornelio filled four goblets. The capitán rose from his chair and handed the first glass to Moneta and the second to a stunned Garcia. "Do not get used to this, Sergeant."

"Oh, no, Commandante, never," the lancer agreed, "but gracias."

Morales noticed the curious glances the father and daughter shared and hid an amused smile. After a few compliments on the excellent vintage and some friendly small talk, he got down to business. Sitting next to the table with the leather-bound folder, he picked it up and opened the cover.

"Sergeant Garcia has compiled a thorough report," Morales flipped a few pages over, "but I would like to hear your account of the events. I understand you were returning from business dealings in Santa Barbara when bandits attacked outside the gate."

"Sí, I completed a sale of cattle to a ranchero there," Cornelio replied.

"That does explain the eighteen hundred pesos," Morales remarked lightly. "I did not think Californios carried such large sums with them regularly. Were you traveling alone?"

"No," Cornelio answered. "Two of my vaqueros who handled the cattle drive north remained in Santa Barbara and accompanied me home. When we reached the edge of my property line, they broke off to join the others while I continued to my hacienda."

"At this point you were attacked?" Morales inquired.

"Sí," Cornelio sighed. "I had just secured my horse and opened the gate when I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Before I knew it, two men brandishing pistols were demanding the eighteen hundred pesos while a third bandit rode up with their horses. I quickly obliged, but after what happened to Don Alfredo, I feared that would not satisfy them," he hesitated, "Have you seen him yet?"

"No, the sergeant and I will be visiting the hacienda of Don Alfredo Rivera after we finish here." Morales turned another page. "According to the report, your servants intervened on your behalf."

"I was right here in the sala when I heard a commotion from outside," Moneta explained. "Glancing out the window, I saw the bandidos aiming pistols at my father. That is when I fetched the servants."

"They rushed the gate," Cornelio interjected, "and scared the ruffians off. I am thankful my daughter was keeping watch and that she was not harmed."

"You are very brave, Señorita," Morales praised and her cheeks blushed. Returning his focus to the don, the capitán proceeded with his investigation. "Can you describe these men?"

"Well, two were about my height, but a little paunchier around the waist," Cornelio detailed. "The other one stayed on the horse and I could not discern much, but he did seem smaller."

Morales furrowed his brow. "Is that all you can tell me? What about their faces?"

"Oh, they were hidden by bandanas," Moneta chimed in. She folded her handkerchief diagonally in half and held it to her face to demonstrate. It covered her features from the nose down.

"In other words, you are unable to positively identify these men at a trial," Morales concluded.

"But Zorro captured them," Moneta protested, "Surely that should be enough."

"I am not rendering any judgments yet, Señorita," Morales said soothingly. "I am merely trying to put all of the facts together. As for this Zorro, he is an outlaw, not an officer of the law."

"Zorro is the hero of the people," Moneta voiced strongly. "He–"

"Calm down, Moneta," her father appeased, "The capitán is simply doing his job."

Morales nodded his appreciation to the don. "Did you or your vaqueros notice anyone following you on the return from Santa Barbara?"

Cornelio shrugged. "No."

"It is rather strange that these bandidos demanded the exact sum of the cattle sale." Raising a hand to his chin and fingering the edges of his perfectly trimmed goatee, the capitán pondered the situation. "Please do not take offense, but is it possible some of your vaqueros could be involved?"

"Never," Cornelio pledged. "I would personally vouch for each and every one of my men."

"You said two accompanied you on the return from Santa Barbara," Morales prodded. "How many men in total worked the cattle drive?" He closed the folder in his lap and placed in on the couch next to him.

"Six," the don answered cautiously.

"Then four left early… Did they know the amount of the sale?" Morales asked softly.

Cornelio opened his mouth to dispute the line of questioning, but snapped it closed and lowered his head in thought. "No, I do not think so. My business with Don Clemente Terrazas was private."

"One of his servants could have overheard the negotiation…" Morales trailed off, considering all of the different angles. "Where exactly was this transaction made?"

"Don Clemente came to Los Angeles to examine the herd," Cornelio clarified. "We reached a deal while dining in the tavern. The money would change hands upon delivery of the cattle to his rancho."

"So, while you intended your business to be private, in theory, it could have been overheard by anyone." Morales leaned back in the soft upholstered couch and folded his arms over his chest.

Cornelio frowned. "I did not think of it that way. The tavern was quite busy that evening and there were many patrons I did not recognize. It is possible the bandidos were there."

"Father, do not forget to tell the capitán how you and Don Clemente were distracted by the pretty new dancer," Moneta added slyly, taking delight in Cornelio's blushing cheeks.

This did not bode well for his case again the suspects. No witnesses and anyone could have eavesdropped on the dons. Moreover, the evidence was gone. When Morales inquired last night why the cuartel's safe sat empty when the report affirmed the stolen money had been recovered, the sergeant eagerly replied, "Of course it is empty, Commandante, I gave the funds back to Don Alfredo and Don Cornelio the next morning."

He hoped Señor Rivera had more to offer. Rising from his seat, Juan bowed to his hosts. "Don Cornelio, Señorita, I appreciate your time and assistance in this matter. If you will excuse us, Sergeant Garcia and I have other appointments this afternoon." He gathered his hat and gloves from the table.

"Capitán," Moneta called to him in concern, "Your words do not inspire confidence. What will happen to these bandidos who robbed my father?"

"I assure you, Señorita," Juan flashed his most charming smile, "I have not made any decisions yet, but I will make certain the law is enforced." He turned to Garcia, who was struggling to get out of the chair.

"A little help? Please?" he asked.

Shaking his head, the capitán extended his arm and offered to help the sergeant up, but he did not account for the hefty lancer's strength. Instead of assisting Garcia to his feet, Morales was jerked forward and nearly pulled into the man's lap. Taking a deep breath, Juan steeled his footing and tried again. Clumsily hauling his subordinate to a standing position, he almost fell to the floor when he finally succeeded.

Moneta chuckled at the display before her.

Straightening his uniform, Morales swallowed hard to control his embarrassment and smiled sheepishly at her. "Thank you for your hospitality," he bowed. "Sergeant, now," he pointed to the door.

"I am sorry, Capitán…" Garcia spluttered as they crossed the patio.

"Do not worry about it Sergeant," Morales waved him off and adjusted his hat. "Hmm, I left my papers behind in the sala. Wait for me with our horses while I retrieve them." Mischievous sparks shone in his blue eyes. "Perchance you will manage to climb into the saddle before I join you."

Garcia looked unsure of the looming task ahead, but saluted. "Sí, mi Capitán."

Morales rolled his eyes as he watched the sergeant waddle the rest of the way across the patio. Once the lancer exited the gate and closed it behind him, Juan peered around the patio to make sure no servants lurked about. Confident he was alone, the capitán crept closer to the sala window.

"I am not sure what to make of our new commandante, Father."

"Oh, Moneta, sometimes you are too harsh a judge of character."

"It almost sounded as if he will let those bandidos go free!"

"Calm down, my dear. I rather liked him. It has been a long time since a commanding officer has taken the time to investigate a crime. Perhaps things are about to change for the better in our pueblo."

"I am not so convinced. There is something about him…"

Cornelio chuckled. "He treats Sergeant Garcia kindly and with respect. That should count in his favor."

"That is true," she reluctantly conceded, "but I still do not fully trust him. Capitán Morales may very well be a wolf in sheep's clothing."

Juan's shoulders straightened and his eyebrow arched upward at the señorita's opinion of him. Smirking, he proceeded to the door and knocked. A servant answered and motioned for him to enter. "I am sorry for the intrusion, Don Cornelio. When I got to my horse, it dawned on me I forgot my folder on the couch."

Moneta fetched the leather-bound file and handed it to the capitán.

"Gracias, Señorita." He raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. "Buenas tardes."

When he rejoined Garcia, Morales was surprised to find the sergeant proudly astride his horse. "I see you managed quite nicely." Securing the paperwork in the saddlebag, he glimpsed a young man, probably a stable groom, disappearing around the corner carrying a stepladder.

Laughing, the capitán swung up on his white mare. "Sergeant, lead the way to the Rivera hacienda," he grinned devilishly, "and you can tell me more about Don Cornelio and Señor Basilio as we ride."

* * *

"Buenas tardes, Father, Don Nacho," Diego greeted upon entering the tavern. "How did your weekly game of póquer go?" He joined the two hacendados at their table nestled in the corner while Bernardo stood at the bar.

"The cards were in your father's favor today," Nacho Torres replied. "He is lucky he is so well respected and playing amongst friends, or he might be forced to defend your family's honor."

Alejandro beamed widely, looking very much like a little boy on his birthday surrounded by presents. "I have never been so lucky in all my life, Diego. Every hand was a winner. It was remarkable."

"I am very happy for you, Father," Diego grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling mischievously, "but does this mean your friends will not invite you back next week?"

"Quite the contrary, Diego," Nacho answered, "We need every opportunity to win our money back!"

The group laughed as Carlotta brought over another glass and a new bottle of wine. She leaned in closer to the young caballero and whispered, "I have never seen him so boisterous before." Diego chuckled and gave her a wink.

"What was that all about?" Alejandro asked. "Do not tell me the two of you are making fun of your old man. Never mind, it does not matter. Nothing can ruin my mood tonight." He raised his glass and the other two men joined in a toast. Exactly what they were toasting, Diego was not sure, but his father was greatly enjoying the moment and it was good to see him in such jovial spirits.

Glancing around the large room, the younger de la Vega noted how the establishment quickly filled up. The new dancer remained quite the draw. "Will you be joining us for supper?" Diego asked Nacho.

"I am afraid not. Luisa is expecting me home soon," he sighed, "but considering it's still early, I can stay long enough to help finish off that bottle…"

Alejandro reached over and topped off his friend's glass.

Diego exchanged an amused glance with Bernardo who suppressed his own smile. With the glasses refilled to acceptable levels, the two older hacendados eagerly began reciting every detail of the earlier card game. He sat there patiently listening to his father's embellishments and Nacho's quick corrections.

When the din of the room suddenly quieted, the men's words trailed off and all three focused on the door and the newly entered customer. For a fleeting second, Diego's senses went on full alert. His back straightened and he shifted into a more defensive position. He forced his reflexes to calm down and took a deep breath, adopting the causal pose of the scholar and poet.

Tall and slender, dressed in the uniform of white trousers and a blue jacket adorned with medals, the new commandante made for an impressive sight—and there was something eerily familiar about him. Diego wracked his brain trying to figure out if he had ever crossed paths with this man before. It was Morales' first trip to California, so they would have met in Spain… and they were about the same age…

While he caught a glimpse of Morales in the plaza yesterday, this was the first time Diego got a good look at the man. The officer ignored the silence that settled over the room and headed for the bar where he exchanged greetings with the proprietor. Diego watched his every move and detected a subtle change in Bernardo, too. His friend shared the same reservations.

That is when Alejandro rose from his seat and approached him. "Capitán, I am Alejandro de la Vega, will you please join me at my table?"

"I would be most honored, Señor de la Vega."

All eyes in the tavern followed the two as they crossed to the corner of the room. "This is my son, Diego, and my neighbor, Nacho Torres."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Señores," the officer bowed, "I am Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales at your service." He slid out an empty chair and sat next to Diego.

As the group swapped pleasantries and Carlotta delivered yet another glass, the clientele slowly returned to their prior discussions and the noise level increased. There were still occasional peeks at the de la Vega table, but the initial weariness toward the military officer faded with Alejandro's simple invitation. Diego kept an easy smile on his lips, but he could not shake the unsettled feeling gnawing at him.

Morales' bearing, voice, goatee, eyes—especially those blue eyes—reminded Diego so much of…

"I am having a small gathering at my hacienda this Saturday to announce the betrothal of my daughter, Elena," Nacho expressed, drawing Diego from his thoughts. "I know it is rather short notice at three days, but I hope you will attend. It would be a good way to meet some of our leading citizens in a less formal setting."

"I would be honored to come," Morales replied.

"Good," Nacho declared, sipping the red wine. "We will expect to see you there."

"Ah, Capitán, what are your opinions of our fair pueblo so far?" Alejandro asked.

"It is quite beautiful," Morales praised. "Sergeant Garcia showed me around a bit today and I am eager to become familiar with the countryside."

"We heard you visited Don Cornelio and Don Alfredo," Diego chimed in softly.

"News travels fast," Morales remarked.

"Several of our friends were discussing this matter today," Alejandro interrupted. "We are thrilled you are taking the initiative to look into the crimes that have plagued our pueblo this past week."

"I am afraid I cannot discuss that subject at this time. My investigation is still ongoing," Morales stated. "But I can tell you that my goal is to bring law and justice to Los Angeles." He shifted slightly in the chair to face the young caballero at his side. "A pueblo should not have to rely on the whims of a bandit to keep her safe."

Diego nodded and raised his glass. "How very true, Capitán." He took a sip of the liquid and watched a trio of privates enter. Ortega, Delgado and Sanchez toddled rather awkwardly. "Are your lancers feeling all right?"

"You would be surprised how often I fielded that question today," Morales chuckled. "They were not prepared for the exercise program I instituted this morning."

Diego cringed. "Ooh, poor Sergeant Garcia."

"Yes, he suffered the most, I am afraid," Morales said. "I gave him the night off from leading patrols. He is likely fast asleep at this very moment."

"The sergeant must be ailing if he is staying away from the tavern!" Nacho added cheerily and the group laughed. "This is practically his second home."

The capitán glanced around the large room. "I can understand why. This is very reminiscent of a tavern I used to frequent during my years at the university, right down to the scent of tamales and stale cigars. My instructors might say I practically lived there, too."

Nacho's eyes lit up and he reached over the table to pat the younger don on the arm. "What a coincidence. Our Diego here went to the University of Madrid."

Diego effortlessly kept his features neutral, an attribute born from years of practice. Why could Nacho not keep that tidbit of information to himself? He was sitting there proud as a peacock, as if the younger man was his own son. The things wine did to men.

Well, at least he was about to find out if there was a reason for the earlier sense of familiarity.

Juan's shoulders stiffened and he crinkled his forehead. "Oh, no, a Madrileño!" he playfully insulted.

Diego raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Do not tell me, a Sevillano?"

"Sí, born and raised." Morales smiled. "During my time at the university, we beat Madrid three times in equestrian competitions and twice in fencing. I was on the teams for all of those defeats."

"Those were not my areas of study, but I do recall our teams besting Seville all three years I attended," Diego pointed out, doing his best not to boast while enjoying the triumph of his alma mater. He also breathed a small sigh of relief. That meant it was unlikely they crossed paths in a fencing tournament.

Morales let out a hearty laugh. "We must get together one day and share stories of our indiscretions. My friends and I would, ahem, borrow a boat and row across the canal as soon as our studies concluded for the day. We would often not get back to the residence hall until just before dawn. To put it politely, we learned a lot about life."

"I am afraid my days were not as colorful," Diego replied with experienced ease, recalling his adventures in Spain, many in the company of Bernardo and his old friend, Marcos de la Callas.

"I find that hard to believe," Juan looked at Alejandro, "but perhaps you are only modest in the presence of your father. I am sure my parents would not approve of my activities back then."

"Maybe we should have a long talk when we return home, my son," Alejandro teased.

"It seems our new commandante is trying to get me into trouble," Diego joked, raising his arms in the air in mock surrender. "Do I need to wave a white flag?"

"What is this? Is the new commandante placing you under arrest, Diego?"

The deep, raspy voice interrupted the carousing and everyone at the table looked up to see Don Bastion Maradona approaching with his son, Emilio. "What have you done now, young man?" Bastion scolded with a wink. "I remember when you and your friends, including my son here, snuck into my fields and helped yourself to the new variety of melons I attempted to harvest."

"I assure you, Señor," Morales laughed, "it is nothing serious. He is only guilty of being a Madrileño, although I will be sure to look into this theft of melons."

"I was twelve," Diego justified, "It was a long time ago!"

Introductions were quickly made and Alejandro insisted his friends join their table. "I am sorry, but we cannot stay," Bastion explained, "My son traveled with me to the harbor in San Pedro to pick up the wedding anniversary gift that arrived for my wife. He will be returning to San Luis Rey tomorrow, so I must get him to the hacienda so Estela can dote on him."

"Is that what you are carrying with you?" Nacho inquired, noting the leather sack at the don's side.

"Sí, I dare not leave it in the saddlebags," Bastion replied. He started to dig the item out.

"I have not had the chance to personally congratulate you, Emilio," Diego smiled. "I hear you will become a father any day now. Is Catalina doing well?"

"Sí, Diego," Emilio beamed proudly. "The doctor said she is very healthy and the baby is expected next month. Oh, I cannot wait to get back to her. Being away just these few days has been nerve-wracking."

"I take it this is your first child?" Juan asked.

Emilio eagerly nodded in affirmation. "Do you have children, Capitán?"

"Oh, no," he waved.

"You do not know what you are missing," Emilio gushed. "There is no better feeling in the world than that of knowing you will soon be a father."

"You may not think so now," Alejandro grinned knowingly, "but you will feel different the first time you hold your child in your arms. That is the finest feeling in the world." He turned roguish eyes to his own son. "Now, Diego, why do you not take a lesson from Emilio? It is high time you fill our hacienda with grandchildren!"

Diego sighed. "Look what you have done, my friend," he playfully reprimanded. "I finally managed to steer my father from the topic of grandchildren and you have pushed him right back on it."

Loud laughter rang from the group.

"You should take his advice," Emilio replied, patting his friend on the shoulder.

Bastion set the polished, dark oak box he removed from the pouch on the dining table. Sliding the lock off the latch, he opened the hinged top. A necklace made of gold and emeralds along with matching earrings sat in the satin-lined container.

"It is beautiful," Alejandro and Nacho murmured in unison.

"Gracias, I have never spent so much on jewelry before, but this was worth it. Not only is it a celebration of our thirty-second anniversary next week, but also the impending birth of our first grandchild."

"You must give it to Doña Estela early so she can wear it to the party Saturday," Nacho advised.

"Do you really think so?" Bastion asked.

"Of course," Alejandro interjected. "Women love to show off such things."

"I may do that, then." Bastion carefully closed the box, reattached the lock and placed it back into the leather pouch. "We should take our leave now. Oh, wait, Emilio, Don Alberto is over there. We must say hello before we go."

The Maradonas exchanged goodbyes and headed across the room. Nacho took the opportunity to take his leave also. "Luisa will not hesitate to start supper without me," he grinned.

As their group thinned out, the de la Vegas and the new commandante had the corner table to themselves. Carlotta came over to take their orders. She no sooner left for the kitchen when guitar strums filled the room and the performance everyone waited for began. The young lady known as Azeneth emerged from behind closed curtains.

Dressed in a tight fitting red gown with the bodice cut lower than customary for the area, and a figure that would make friars blush and señoras incensed, she had the undivided attention of every male in the tavern. Long, wavy dark locks falling loosely on her back added to her allure. The dance was as sultry as she was. Enormous applause and whistles filled the air as the show ended.

"I am enjoying your pueblo more and more," Morales observed wryly, turning back to his hosts.

"I do not want to disappoint you, Capitán," Diego tugged his ear, "but we are not always graced with the presence of such exquisite entertainment."

"A pity," Morales remarked.

Diego nodded his agreement and noticed the Maradonas were still there. Bastion was now showing his precious gift to his friends at the other table. Azeneth rematerialized from the back room to mingle with the crowd, starting near that small gathering.

"She is stunning," Morales commented, also watching the scene on the other side of the tavern.

Carlotta delivered their meals and kept the wine flowing with another bottle of Madeira. As they enjoyed the food, the commandante turned curious eyes to Diego. The unsettled feeling from earlier was back and stronger than ever. The young don struggled to keep his demeanor cheery and his mistrust guarded.

"De la Vega…" he muttered. "Don Diego, you attended the University of Madrid. By chance, are you the same de la Vega who won the Royal Cup Invitational fencing tournament a couple of years ago? I swear he was a Californio."

"I am afraid you must have me mixed up with someone else," he answered smoothly, while every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Diego glanced fleetingly at Bernardo who watched the table intently, and he thought they went unobserved, until the newly appointed officer followed his line of sight to the manservant.

Morales turned back with a smile, but said nothing. He took a sip from his wine glass.

"Sí, my son has many fine attributes, but unfortunately, fencing is not one of them," Alejandro added in a disappointed tone. "We have had many differences on the subject, but I have learned to accept he will never be a swordsman. As much as it pains me to say, it is probably for the better. He nearly ran himself through with the blade the last time I tried to give him lessons."

"I find it hard to believe anyone is that clumsy," Morales responded, keeping his blue eyes trained on the young don. "It is a shame, though. It would have been fun to cross blades with a master."

"As you are familiar with this tournament, may I assume you participated?" Alejandro inquired, showing great interest in the topic. Diego was grateful to his father for asking the very question he wanted to, but did not dare broach. Something about this discussion felt… off.

"Regrettably, I did not," Morales answered softly, his lips curling into a bittersweet smile. "I was invited during my final year of studies, but duty called and I was transferred to Barcelona and, as such, unable to partake in it. To this day, I still wonder how I would rank among the best fencers in Europe."

"I am sorry to hear to you missed out," Alejandro said sympathetically.

Diego remained silent as they continued chatting about different tournaments and competitions. He kept a pleasant smile trained on his face and feigned interest, all the while fully alert and taking in every word with great fascination. His competitive nature was stirred…

Just how good was Capitán Juan Morales with a blade?

* * *

"That was a most enjoyable evening," Alejandro declared cheerfully. "Capitán Morales is a very amiable and charming fellow. He will make a fine leader for our pueblo's garrison."

"What do you think of our new commandante, Bernardo?" Diego asked as the trio rode to the de la Vega hacienda under moonlit skies. They kept their horses to a steady trot on the familiar road.

The mute took the reins in one hand, pointed to his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

"He seemed familiar to you too, eh?"

Bernardo nodded apprehensively.

"You are both being too suspicious," Alejandro sighed.

"I am not so sure about that. Did you notice the way he looked directly at me when speaking of Zorro? _A pueblo should not have to rely on the whims of a bandit to keep her safe_," Diego added mockingly.

Alejandro chuckled. "The capitán was simply involving you in the conversation. It is called being polite. I did not detect any malicious intent on his part. Besides, he is right, Diego. Our pueblo should not have to rely on Zorro to keep her safe."

"What about the Royal Cup?" Diego inquired softly. "When he asked me if I was the same de la Vega, it felt like he could see right through me... As if he _knew_ I won the trophy."

"You are reading too much into it, Diego," Alejandro responded. "Capitán Morales is an avid and highly skilled fencer who is eager to encounter a worthy opponent. He believed he had finally met one. That sounds very much like someone I know," he smiled. "Now that he knows you are not that person, I doubt he will ever give the matter a second thought."

Diego lowered his head. Could he be wrong about the new commandante? After all, Morales had done nothing to earn this suspicion. He was friendly and gracious during dinner. It would have been fun to discuss fencing tournaments and techniques with him. The young don exhaled heavily. He was not sure what to think right now.

No, that was not true. He trusted his instincts and he trusted Bernardo's instincts. Both had kept him alive this long playing a dangerous game. Right now, those instincts were on high alert. Alejandro must have sensed his son's inner struggle, because when Diego raised his head, his father stared at him with concerned eyes.

"Did you ever cross paths with him during your time in Spain?" the older hacendado prompted, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "From the sound of it, you likely would have traveled in similar circles. Was there was a competition that you both attended, but did not compete against one another in any of the matches?"

"No," Diego admitted in frustration, "as familiar as he seems, I am positive we have never met. Bernardo, do you know him from anywhere?"

Bernardo shook his head 'no.'

"What about someone from his family?" Alejandro prodded. "Is there anyone by the name of Morales you can recollect?"

Diego sighed in resignation, "No."

"If you want my opinion, you are overreacting, my son," Alejandro playfully chided. "If I did not know you better, I might even say you were a little, ahem, envious."

"Envious?" Diego repeated incredulously.

"Sí, you are afraid the new commandante may put an end to the need for Zorro."

The words hit the young caballero harder than he wanted to admit. Perhaps his father was right; that he feared Zorro would no longer be needed. Where would that leave Diego? Swallowing hard to push the uncomfortable notion far away, he took a deep breath and smiled merrily. "Hmm, my dear father, would you say that if you were not so tipsy?"

"Tipsy?" Alejandro's eyes lit up and his voice raised an octave. "Who are you calling tipsy? A de la Vega never gets tipsy, nor do we get drunk."

Diego continued smiling peacefully with devilish sparks in his eyes.

"Ha! I will show you who is tipsy. I will race you home!" Alejandro dug his heels into Everardo's sides and the horse took off into a mighty gallop.

The young don laughed heartily, exchanged amused glances with Bernardo and gave chase.


	4. Chapter 4

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 4  
"Men of Law"**

Sergeant Garcia stood near the open gate of the cuartel and watched as Private Delgado carried a tall stack of documents across the plaza. "These are all of them, Sergeant," he stated, handing them over.

"Good, now return to your regular duties, Private."

Garcia leaned back so the papers would rest against his chest and felt a sharp crack. He groaned. These morning exercises were going to kill him. Half waddling and half limping through the courtyard, he stopped at the stairs leading to the commandante's office for what must have been the fifteenth time that day. Staring at the evil steps, he took a deep breath and climbed them one at a time.

Knocking on the door with his boot, he waited for the announcement to enter and fumbled with the knob. "These are the last of the registers from the former alcalde's dwelling," he declared.

Capitán Morales briefly glanced up from his desk. "You may set them down, Sergeant."

Garcia started to do just that, but hesitantly stopped. He peered around the office, trying to find an empty spot to put the pile down. Mountains of books, maps and papers covered every surface. The sergeant pressed his lips together, trying to decide what to do. He was about to ask where exactly to leave the final bundle when Morales addressed him, never taking his focus off his work.

"Hurry it up, Sergeant."

Frowning, Garcia crinkled his forehead. The floor was clear. He could place the pile in the corner where it would be out of the way. No, that was not a very good idea. The capitán probably would not approve of that… and the sergeant did not want to have to bend that far forward, either.

Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as he struggled where to put the burden in his grasp. Finally, his eyes drifted to the table on the far side of the room. One edge had only a small mound. The pile in his arms would easily stack on top. Proud of his resourcefulness, Garcia managed to rid himself of the pesky registers. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and scanned the writing.

"That is everything on your list, Commandante. Is there anything else you need?"

Morales placed the quill next to the bottle of ink atop his desk and leaned back in the chair. With elbows on the armrests and fingertips together, his blue orbs scanned the room, fully taking in the scene for the first time. "Is it too much to ask if there is any semblance of order to this?" He waved a hand, indicating the items he requested.

"Oh, I have tried, Commandante," Garcia replied. "Those over there are the reports from our storage area and those," he shifted, "are the land grants and maps. Ah, and these are the public logs the alcalde had."

"Very good, Sergeant." Morales smiled. "You are dismissed."

"Sí, mi Commandante." Garcia saluted. He exited the door, turned and pulled it closed. That's when the sleepy voice from behind made him jump.

"Has the capitán made a decision yet?"

"Aieee! Do not startle me like that, Corporal." He narrowed his eyes. "Now you are here. Where were you when I was transporting the papers across the plaza?"

Reyes let the butt of the rifle in his grip slip to the ground. Folding his gloved hands over the muzzle, he rested his chin on them in a precarious balancing act. "It looked more like Private Delgado was carrying most of the papers."

"Never mind that, Corporal," Garcia huffed, "where were you?" He gingerly descended the steps, once again taking them one at a time. His poor knees felt like they would buckle underneath him any second.

"I was following your orders."

"What orders?" Garcia repeated, at last reaching the end of the stairs. "How can I issue you orders when I have not seen you since morning drills?" He moved to stand next to the corporal who found protection from the warm afternoon sun in the shade of the building.

"I was keeping watch for Don Diego like you told me to."

"Those were your orders several days ago."

"You never gave me new ones, so I thought you wanted me to keep looking for him."

Garcia shook his head. "I wish you would quit thinking for me, Corporal."

"All right, Sergeant."

Don Diego… The tavern… Perhaps it was for the best that Reyes did not receive new instructions. A nice refreshing glass of wine in the cool confines of the inn sounded like heaven to Garcia. "Well, Corporal," he prodded anxiously, "Has Don Diego come to the plaza today?"

Reyes frowned. "No."

"Oh," Garcia sighed, also frowning. His round features suddenly perked up. "What about the little one? If he has ridden into town, his master is surely somewhere close by."

"Bernardo hasn't come to the pueblo, either," the corporal answered with shared gloominess.

Garcia's shoulders slumped forward and his muscles twitched in protest.

"So, has the capitán made a decision about the bandidos yet?" Reyes inquired a second time. "Everyone in the pueblo keeps asking me about it."

"He has not said anything to me," Garcia replied. "The commandante spent the morning visiting with the merchants and talking with the people in the plaza while I hauled the remaining records to his office. Oh, shut up," he admonished, seeing Reyes opening his mouth. "He came back to the cuartel a little while ago and is now up to his nose in papers. He must read more than Don Diego."

"What do you think he will do, Sergeant?"

"How am I to know what Capitán Morales will do?"

Reyes shrugged. "Some people want to see the bandidos hang after what they did to Don Alfredo."

"I cannot blame them," Garcia concurred. "You have not seen him since the day of the attack. His face is still all bruised and cut," the soldier cringed, "and he can barely walk. It is horrible."

The uncomfortable subject triggered a wave of silence to settle over the two lancers until Corporal Reyes groaned. "I don't feel so good, Sergeant. I hurt everywhere. Even places I did not know could hurt."

"You are not the only one hurting," Garcia grumbled. "I ache more that you do."

"How can you know that?" Reyes asked curiously.

"There is much more of me to ache." Garcia patted his round belly.

Reyes nodded, apparently approving of his superior's logic. "How long are we going to have to do these early morning drills, Sergeant? I don't like them."

"According to the commandante, everyday…" The thought almost brought Garcia to tears.

"I wish Zorro would save us soon."

The comment took Garcia by surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"He always rides to protect the people and gets rid of corrupt officials, right?"

"Sí," Garcia agreed.

"And he often helps the army, too."

"Sí, he has saved my life many times," Garcia agreed again, "but what are you getting at, Corporal?"

"The way I see it, if we feel this bad, it must mean the commandante is evil," Reyes concluded, keeping his voice low so he would not be overheard. "So maybe Zorro will come save us."

The sergeant considered these words carefully. "You have a valid point, Corporal. If the soldiers are in so much pain that they cannot chase bandidos, then we are not of much use. If we are not of much use that means Zorro has to work harder." Garcia glanced cautiously around the courtyard. "I think the fox likes me a little, too," he whispered. "He would not want for me to hurt all the time."

Reyes raised his head, took the rifle in one hand and stepped closer to the sergeant with a sparkle of hope in his brown eyes. "Do you think he will rescue us?"

"He might," Garcia answered. "Oh, what am I saying? I do not like the exercises, but Capitán Morales is not evil. He treated me very nicely at the Esperon hacienda yesterday. Even Capitanes Linares and Toledano were never that kind to me." The sergeant rubbed his stubble-covered chin. "Maybe Zorro can talk to the commandante… reason with him… explain that the drills are not beneficial for us."

"He might do that," Reyes added eagerly. "If we get too skilled, there is a greater chance we might catch Zorro and Zorro does not want to be caught!"

"That is excellent thinking, Corporal," Garcia expressed excitedly. "It would be in Zorro's best interest to help us." He crinkled his forehead in puzzlement. "The only question is: how do we let him know this?"

* * *

Visions of a battered Don Alfredo Rivera haunted Juan Morales' thoughts as he put the finishing touches on the report detailing the findings of his investigation. The face covered in bruises and gashes with an eye nearly swollen shut; the body with one arm in a sling while the other clutched a cane, despite the fact he could scarcely stand, let alone walk; the unimaginable wounds hidden beneath the clothing…

But it was the sheer terror still discernible in Don Alfredo's eyes that disturbed Juan the most.

Signing his name, he reached for the pounce pot and sprinkled the fine grains of powder on the wet ink to hasten its drying. He nestled into the chair and took a deep breath. The morning stroll in the plaza went better than he expected. Merchants slowly warmed to the new capitán's presence and began chatting with him. Peons who dared not meet his gaze two days ago nodded politely in his direction. Hacendados were eager to introduce themselves.

Morales chuckled.

A simple invitation from Don Alejandro de la Vega worked wonders for one's reputation.

It was a shame he was going to crush this newfound trust in a few minutes. A part of Morales wanted to laugh. He was sent to the troubled pueblo with orders to instill justice. By adhering to his duty, he was going to draw the citizens' mistrust again. Oh, how he craved to see the humor, but he could not. Juan's instincts screamed these men were guilty, but he had no choice in the matter. The law was clear.

Sighing, the capitán picked up the report, glanced over the writing and placed it in the upper desk drawer. He stood, crossed the room with heavy feet and opened the door. Sergeant Garcia and Corporal Reyes were huddled to the side at the bottom of the stairs talking in hushed tones. Morales shook his head; they were probably plotting to get out of the morning drills.

"Sergeant Garcia."

"Ahhh!" the portly lancer yelped, jumping higher than Morales thought possible. When his boots touched the ground again, he pivoted, squared his shoulders with a grunt and saluted. "Sí, mi Capitán."

"Release the prisoners."

"Si, mi Capitán," Garcia repeated. He began to turn, paused and looked back with a perplexed expression on his round face. "Release the prisoners?"

"Since you repeated my orders, you obviously heard them," Morales remarked wryly, suppressing a grin at his subordinate's reaction. He needed to find some humor in this otherwise repulsive state of affairs. "Now, why don't you try carrying them out?"

"But they beat and robbed Don Alfred and held up Don Cornelio," Garcia protested.

"Unfortunately, there is no evidence to back up those accusations," Morales said. It was difficult arguing with the soldier when he felt the same way. "You have your orders, Sergeant. Their weapons are to remain confiscated. Escort them out of the pueblo and make it very clear they are never to return. If they do, Los Angeles will be their final resting place."

"Zorro is not going to like this," Garcia muttered, lowering his head.

"Must I remind you, Sergeant Garcia, that Zorro is a wanted outlaw with a price on his head? He is to be pursued, apprehended and brought to trial—not revered by a lancer in the King's Army. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Garcia nodded and motioned to Reyes. "Follow me, Corporal."

Morales continued standing at the top of the stairs leading to his office and watched the two soldiers walk ever so slowly across the courtyard to the jail cells. He briefly wondered if they would make it; a tortoise crawled faster. The leisurely pace allowed their conversation to drift back to the commandante.

"Do you think Zorro will still help us, Sergeant?"

"I do not know, Corporal."

"If he gets mad at the capitán, that means he will want to stop him."

"But when Zorro is mad, it means more work for us."

"It's not like we wanted to let the bandidos go, Sergeant."

"No, but we will have to chase the fox after he confronts the capitán. I do not think I can survive a night in the saddle the way I feel. And once Zorro humiliates the capitán, he will take his anger out on us."

"Please don't say it, Sergeant."

"Yes, Corporal, that means more exercises and maneuvers."

Morales pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief. It was absurd. Were they really expecting a bandit to help them get out of the daily drills? From what he knew of the two bumbling lancers, it probably should not have surprised him. One corner of his lip twitched up as he contemplated Garcia's words. _We will have to chase the fox when he confronts the capitán_…

Maybe something good would come from releasing the three bandidos after all. He was looking forward to meeting this mysterious avenging angel. And it will be Zorro who leaves the encounter humiliated…

* * *

"Check."

Alejandro narrowed his eyes. His ivory king was in danger yet again. An ebony bishop had the royal in its sight. He rubbed his chin, studying the pieces on the chessboard. "Must you toy with me, Diego?" His men were outnumbered and it was only a matter of time before he lost. His son enjoyed winning; all de la Vegas did. However, he never displayed poor sportsmanship. Systematically taking out one piece at a time and then prolonging an opponent's inevitable loss was so unlike him.

The worried father glanced up at his son. Diego wore a grin, yet the jovial sparks in his hazel eyes were missing. He was playing the game, but not enjoying it.

Alejandro moved his remaining knight to block the attack. His son countered by sliding his queen to an open area of the board to prepare for a second attack. With a rook his only other piece, he slid it three squares over in a futile effort to fend off the queen. He did not even notice the ebony knight lying in wait.

Diego moved the piece. "Checkmate."

"It is about time," the older don harrumphed. "You could have finished me off a dozen moves ago. What has gotten into you? You have been in this strange mood all day."

"If you do not want to play chess, Father, you should have said as much."

The trace of a bitter edge to his son's normally good-natured voice startled Alejandro. "Did I say something last night to get on your bad side?" Trying to recall everything that was said, he failed to pinpoint anything that would trigger this attitude in Diego. Glancing at Bernardo, who observed the game from a chair near the piano, he saw his own concern mirrored on the manservant's face.

"Of course not, Father. What gives you that impression?"

That tone—and the choice of words—was pure Isabella. Alejandro simultaneously bit his tongue to keep from snapping back and smiled. She would torment her husband for days, not telling him how he riled her temper, before finally cooling down and revealing what he did wrong. Now their son was doing it to him. What did he expect? Diego was half de la Cruz, too.

Alejandro chuckled, ignoring the two pairs of eyes staring at him. He did dismiss the concerns regarding their new commandante. Was that what this was all about? "Diego, I'm s–"

A knock at the door interrupted his apology. Diego gestured for Bernardo to answer it.

"Alejandro, Diego, I am glad to catch you at home." Don Nacho Torres strode in, nodding to the servant on the way. The de la Vegas rose from their seats at the table. "Have you heard the news?"

"What news?" Diego inquired.

"Then you must not have," Nacho concluded. "Capitán Morales released the prisoners earlier today."

"He what?" Alejandro asked furiously. "How dare he? And after what they did to Don Alfredo!"

"Did he provide any reasons?" Diego interrupted.

"I do not know, Diego," Nacho replied. "My vaqueros were in the pueblo to pick up supplies. When they returned to my rancho, they informed me of this distressing development."

"We shall ride to the plaza immediately," Alejandro declared, heading for his hat near the front door. "I want to personally hear our new commandante's explanation."

"Father, wait," Diego grabbed his arm, "It will be dark soon. Look at the clouds building in the skies to the west of us. Smell the rain in the air. It would be wiser to ride to the plaza in the morning. Not to mention if these men are on the loose, it could be dangerous out there." Under the studious countenance, a genuine smile waited to escape and mischievous sparks danced in the hazel eyes. The fox would be paying Morales a visit tonight.

"Diego is right." The expression on Alejandro's face softened. "It is best if we go tomorrow. We can alert the dons and meet at one of our haciendas to further discuss this matter after we confer with the commandante."

"You are both right," Nacho conceded. "There is still enough daylight remaining to call on Don Alfredo. He deserves to be informed of this. If he is up to it, we should hold the meeting at his home."

"That is an excellent idea," Alejandro agreed. They briefly made arrangements, detailing what time to convene at the cuartel and who would deliver notices of the meeting. When they finished, Alejandro grabbed his hat and the two older dons left to visit the Rivera rancho, leaving Diego to make plans with Bernardo.

* * *

The soft flickering light illuminating the room suddenly dimmed. Juan looked up from his paperwork and noticed the whiffs of smoke wafting up from the freshly burnt out candle. Its neighbor was about to join it in darkness. He stood from his seat behind the desk and headed to the other side of the office. Opening the cabinet's top drawer, he pulled out fresh candlesticks.

The commandante smiled. He was grateful to the corrupt official who saw it prudent to invest in beeswax candles instead of those made of tallow. Not only did they burn longer, they smelled infinitely better.

Replacing the spent light with a fresh source, he returned to the cabinet and shuffled through the stack of papers piled atop it. Pulling out the ones of interest, Juan settled back into the chair.

His eyes scanned over the fluid, familiar handwriting. Turning the pages, he noticed others also added to the list of Zorro's appearances. The bandit certainly got around. The fox's most recent sighting was at the tavern two weeks ago when he stopped Ramon Castillo from robbing the innkeeper. Castillo insisted that Diego de la Vega was Zorro.

That was a common accusation according to the notes. Capitán Enrique Monastario made the allegations just prior to his arrest. Señora Raquel Toledano made similar observations. Sergeant Garcia even locked de la Vega in jail for a night on charges of being the outlaw until Zorro rescued the falsely accused don…

"Falsely accused my ass," Juan muttered to the empty room.

Emissary Basilio insisted the caballero's manservant, Bernardo, was in league with the fox shortly before his second-in-command, Capitán Mendoza, shot him. Morales stroked his goatee. Mendoza was arrested on charges of killing the emissary, so his declaration was not exactly the most reliable. Still, the idea of the deaf mute playing a role in the charade was most intriguing.

Scanning over the words again, Juan's eyes fixated on this latest encounter. Ramon Castillo… why was that name so familiar? He wracked his brain trying to figure out where he heard the name before, and it finally hit him.

Reaching for the leather briefcase sitting on the floor next to the desk, he pulled out the bundle of letters. Sorting through them, he found the object of his search. His lips curled up in a devilish grin.

_Dear Father,_

_ Oh, how I wish you were here with me in Madrid right now! It is with great pride that I am now writing this letter. I have taken first place in the Royal Cup Invitational. I owe it all to you. Without your early instruction, words of encouragement and insistence that I attend the university, I would never have been able to accomplish this._

_ So, my dear father, thank you._

_ The trophy is most beautiful and my heart swells with delight at the seeing the de la Vega name engraved on it. It is as much yours as it is mine. It is with even greater satisfaction that I bested a man named Ramon Castillo to claim this prize. Ah, but that is a story for another day._

_ For the first time since my arrival in Spain, I am eager for my days at the university to come to an end so I may return home. If only you could have been here to witness my accomplishment._

_With love and gratitude,  
__Your son, Diego_

Castillo was de la Vega's rival at the university! Juan laughed heartily aloud. Could it get any better than this? He shoved the letters back into the briefcase, placed it on the floor, got up and began rummaging in the piles under the window. Sergeant Garcia was surprisingly organized and he located the detailed report on the incident in no time.

Leaning forward with both hands planted firmly on the edge of the desk, his enthusiasm slowly waned as he examined the report. Diego remained in the acting commandante's quarters while Zorro stopped the tavern robbery. How did de la Vega do it? Sinking into the chair, Juan propped his elbows on the armrests and tilted his head back deep in thought.

The official account of the robbery was very specific, but there were not enough details regarding Diego's confinement. Morales needed to speak with Garcia. Was the don held under the watchful eye of a guard?

This was going to be fun. Juan thoroughly enjoyed their witty verbal exchanges last night during supper. Diego was so smooth and confident, expertly deflecting questions about his fencing skills. He did not even bat an eyelash at the mention of Zorro, only casually sipped from his wine glass. No one was that good… It was a clear indication of practice.

Diego de la Vega was Zorro. Juan did not doubt it for a second.

Oh, how Morales desired to know how the caballero managed being in two places at once. He could not pull off the masquerade alone. Someone had to be helping him. There was that fleeting glance he aimed toward his manservant and Don Alejandro was unusually quick to dismiss his son's ability with the blade. A father boasts of a son's accomplishments, not his failures. Was the older hacendado aware of Diego's nightlife? He had to…

A soft rustling from his left startled the commandante. He glanced towards his bedroom. A knock on the main door caused him to snap his head in that direction. "Enter."

Sergeant Garcia stepped into the office. A gust of wind swept in behind him, slamming the door against the wall. "A thousand pardons, Capitán. It is getting very windy and it is starting to drizzle."

"No need to apologize, Sergeant. What brings you to my office at this hour?"

"Corporal Reyes has returned with his patrol," Garcia explained as he fumbled with the hat blown off his head. "He has nothing to report. I am getting ready to head out now."

Morales nodded. "Very good, Sergeant. Be sure to keep an eye out for the prisoners released earlier. If the weather worsens or you see lightning, return to the cuartel immediately."

"Sí, mi Capitán." Garcia saluted, turned and paused. He lingered at the entrance, staring miserably out at the wind and light rain before finally taking a deep breath, exiting and securing the door behind him.

With a chuckle, Morales set the papers in front of him aside. He would discuss the details of the Castillo case with the sergeant tomorrow. The patrols were more important right now. Reaching for a logbook, he cracked open the spine and thumbed through the pages. He then picked up a quill, dipped the nib into the bottle of ink and began copying names and dates on the blank sheets of paper.

That's when he felt the point of a rapier between his shoulder blades. Juan inhaled sharply.

"Do not call for your lancers or try any tricks, Commandante."

The menacing voice made Morales' blood run cold. Damn, how did he allow someone to get the drop on him? His eyes ran to the sheathed sword hanging from a hook fifteen feet away. A loaded pistol sat in the top drawer to his left, but it may as well have been next to the sword. There was a dagger in his boot, but there was no way to reach for it without the tip of the blade piercing his body first.

Capitán Morales was at the mercy of his assailant. "I would not think of it." As he spoke, he shifted ever so slightly and glimpsed a black shadow over his shoulder. "You must be the famous el Zorro I have heard so much about."

"You are correct. We have something to discuss, Commandante."

"I cannot think of anyone else who would have the gall to enter my quarters like this," Morales quipped in an effort to gain some control. He used his quick wit to diffuse volatile situations before; this was no different. "So, what would you like to discuss? It does not have anything to do with the three bandidos I released earlier today, does it?"

Receiving no answer, Morales carried on. "I expected you to show up. I had the feeling my decision would not sit well with the pueblo's avenging angel." Despite the sword in his back, he was truly enjoying this.

"Ah, so that is why you released them. You wanted to meet me," Zorro feigned flattery.

So, the fox had a sense of humor, too. "Do you mind if I turn around?" Morales inquired. "I would much rather speak face to face, or in your case, face to mask." He dropped the quill still in his grasp.

"Fair enough. Keep your hands where I can see them and make no sudden movements."

Carefully scooting the chair back and away from the outlaw, Morales gradually lowered his hands to the armrests. Getting his first good look at the outlaw, he barely managed to stifle a gasp.

Dressed in black from head to toe, Zorro may as well have been a demon from hell. A mask cloaked most of his features. Shadows from the candlelight obscured his eyes and danced over the visible flesh of his jaw. Between the flowing cape and dimness of the room, it was difficult to discern the shape of the actual human, making it damn near impossible to determine the vigilante's height and build.

Zorro grinned and Morales silently cursed. The capitán bestowed to the masked man the very reaction he wanted. Damn! The fox pushed aside a pile of papers on the corner of the desk and leaned on it as if he owned the piece of furniture. The rapier in his grasp never wavered. It now aimed directly at Juan's heart.

The hilt of the weapon concealed the man's hold, but the angle of his gloved wrist revealed to Morales all he needed to know. Even the finest fencers in Europe would often fall into the bad habit of gripping the hilt too firmly when not engaged in a match, placing undo strain on the wrist and tiring the arm's muscles. But the fox's stance was casual, his arm relaxed. Zorro was indeed an expert of the highest caliber.

"Now, Commandante, why did you release those bandidos?"

"It's not as if I had much choice. The ruffians who robbed Don Alfredo and Don Cornelio all wore cloths over their faces to hide their identities. I believe you may know a thing or two about that." Morales smiled. No reaction came from the masked man, so he continued, "The witnesses would never be able to identify them in a court of law. The lone individual who tracked them down is also a wanted criminal."

Zorro nodded, but did not voice a retort.

Unable to resist, Morales added a further gibe. "In fact, you are wanted on even more charges—and more serious ones at that. Interfering with the King's Lancers is considered a treasonable offense."

His foe remained quiet and the capitán trusted he needled his way under the fox's skin. "Upon delivering the trio to the cuartel, you also instructed Corporal Reyes to make sure the money was promptly returned. Sergeant Garcia adhered to this imprudent advice and returned the stolen funds the following day. Now the only evidence is gone," he paused for effect, "What would you have me do, Señor Zorro? Keep them locked up for a crime I cannot prove they committed? Is that not the very injustice you fight?"

Oh yes, Morales truly enjoyed this.

The masked outlaw finally broke his silence. "You make some very interesting points, Commandante. It has been a most enlightening evening." Zorro raised the blade to the brim of his hat and saluted the officer. He backed up toward the bedroom, keeping eyes trained on the form seated in the chair, stopping only when Morales asked him a question.

"Señor, I am curious, would you have removed your mask and testified against them in court?"

"We will never know." Zorro grinned, flashing brilliant white teeth.

The sly remark rankled Morales' ego. He could not allow the bastard the final word. As the black shadow disappeared into the bedroom, he called out, "Zorro! Next time, leave the bandit chasing to the proper officials." Hoping his words stopped his adversary, he could not resist adding to the taunt, "That way, we can ensure justice is served and we won't have to let them go." Hearing the same slight rustling as earlier, he was certain the fox stayed put to listen. Fading echoes of hoof beats a few seconds later confirmed it.

Scooting his chair back to the desk, Juan smiled widely and let out a hearty laugh. The legendary outlaw scampered back to his hole in the pouring rain, tail firmly between his legs. Not only did the capitán outshine his masked opponent, the law was squarely on his side. It is not so difficult to outsmart a fox.

He picked up the quill he unceremoniously dropped earlier and twirled it in his fingers. During the encounter with Zorro, Diego never crossed into his thoughts. The attire was quite effective in creating an illusion to counter the image of the fancy caballero.

There was a reason he had been successful in the charade for so long.

Knowing de la Vega was Zorro was one thing; proving it was another matter entirely. The fox lived up to his name: he was cunning, elusive and daring. Obtaining the evidence needed to arrest the bandit was not going to be easy. It was akin to solving a jigsaw puzzle. With all of the pieces fitted together, they would paint a picture clear as day—a picture that would lead Diego de la Vega straight to the gallows.

This was a puzzle Capitán Morales looked forward to deciphering.

* * *

Clutching a lantern in one hand, Alejandro followed the secret passage to the cave. Reaching the end, he stopped for a moment to observe Bernardo. The mute sat on a stool, his back resting against the rock wall, arms folded over his chest, legs extended outward and eyes closed. The don gently cleared his throat to announce his presence. "Ah, I thought I would find you down here."

Bernardo jumped at the quiet voice and nearly fell over.

"I am sorry," the don smiled, "I did not mean to startle you."

The manservant scrambled to his feet.

"There is no need for that," Alejandro waved him off. "Please sit." Setting the lantern down on the floor, he pulled over another stool and sat across from his son's friend. "The rain is starting to pick up outside. I hope Zorro returns soon. It's too easy to leave tracks in the mud and even Tornado could lose footing in such conditions."

An awkward silence snuck into the cavern as the two disparate men studied each other in the muted glow. Whiffs of fresh earth were strong from the showers outside, making the atmosphere in the enclosed space even damper than usual. "Tell me, Bernardo, what is bothering my son?"

The mute lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"You do not know either?" Alejandro sighed.

Bernardo nodded affirmatively. Waving to catch the don's attention, he dragged his hand across his chest indicating the shoulder strap of a soldier's uniform and stroked his chin signaling a goatee.

"You think it has something to do with our new commandante," Alejandro concluded. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees. "I should have trusted Diego's instincts. I have never known them to be wrong, but Capitán Morales was quite amiable during supper. Now that he released the prisoners, I am uncertain what to make of the officer."

The worried father rubbed his face. "Is it too much to ask for a decent official so my son does not have to risk his life? There are times I wonder if I did the correct thing in stopping him from accepting amnesty. Diego deserves to have a family, to have children. I fear he will never do so as long as there is a price on his head. He is missing out on a man's most rewarding journey."

It felt odd articulating these anxieties aloud. Alejandro grew so used to keeping them deeply buried. For what seemed like an eternity, he remained alone with his son's secret. There was no one to talk to when he heard stories of Zorro's close scrapes. Now that they surfaced, he found divulging these concerns to the silent man who had become a respected member of his family therapeutic.

"That night… that night Basilio raided our hacienda and Mendoza shouted out that he killed Zorro…" The words caught in his throat and he finished in a whisper, "That gunshot gives me nightmares."

A shudder ran the length of the older man's body. "I should have immediately realized it wasn't Diego. The man who fell down the stairs was too small and did not wear the same moustache. But I was gripped with fear. If Basilio had not been so foolish in putting on the mask and cape, my son would have… have hanged."

Raising his head to meet the mute's eyes, Alejandro once again saw his own trepidations reflected on the other man's pale face. "I am sorry, Bernardo. I did not mean to trouble you with the musings of an old man. Diego is fortunate to have someone trustworthy to confide in. It is not easy carrying a burden like this alone."

The manservant tilted his head curiously at the hacendado, pointed at him and then to his own ear.

"I may confide in you again?" Alejandro asked, smiling when Bernardo nodded 'yes.' "I might just take you up on that offer. Sometimes I think it was easier…" Rustling leaves near the entrance drew both their attentions.

Tornado and his rider wove their way through the thick vines that covered the mouth of the cave. Pieces of the wet foliage stuck to the black stallion's coat and Zorro's hat. Dismounting, the masked man handed the reins to Bernardo without uttering a word, pushed past his father and began stalking toward the passage to the secret room.

"Diego," Alejandro called out in worry and ran toward him, "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Zorro stopped, but did not turn around. "I am fine."

The father stepped in front of his son and inspected him for any visible wounds. Shadows blended with the black clothing making it difficult to see if anything was amiss. The clothing looked intact…

Diego reached up and slid the hat and mask off. "I am not hurt."

"Well, what happened?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I need to change out of these damp clothes. So, if you will excuse me, Father." Not waiting for a response from the elder de la Vega, he disappeared into the dark passage.

Alejandro stood there, mouth agape. The tone in his son's voice was one he did not recall hearing before. It sounded like a mix of irritation, melancholy and… anger? Shoulders slumping, he returned to Tornado. "Do you mind if I help you, Bernardo?"

The mute looked at him in bewilderment. Shaking his head in confusion, he pointed to the hacendado and to the passage. Even Tornado snickered, siding with his caretaker.

"No, I will check on him in a few minutes." Alejandro smiled softly, appreciating Bernardo's concern for Diego. He rubbed the stallion's nose. "It is best to give him time to cool off." Isabella was always easier to talk to after her temper simmered down, too. The same should hold true for their son.

At least Alejandro hoped that was the case. He might have won the clash of words with his wife on rare occasions, but he was certain he would never win a battle of wills with Zorro.

* * *

When Alejandro hesitantly entered his son's bedroom through the secret door, he found Diego sitting in a chair by the burning fireplace. His elbows were on his knees and his face cupped in his hands. A steady beat of rain fell on the hacienda creating an eerie sensation in the den of the fox.

"You want to know about tonight, don't you, Father?"

The question startled Alejandro. "I did not think you heard me enter," he finally responded, lowering his body into the chair opposite his son's. "Yes, I would like to know why the capitán released those men."

"He is a smug, arrogant, pompous jackass."

The reply caught Alejandro off guard and he snorted.

Diego raised his head and shot his father an aggravated glare. Running fingers through his thick hair, he leaned back into the cushion and stared directly at the other man. "The answer to your question is rather simple," he bit back bitterly. "Zorro made a mistake. Morales had no choice but to let them go."

Alejandro narrowed his eyes. "I am not quite sure I follow you."

"Those bandidos wore bandanas over their faces when robbing Don Alfredo and Don Cornelio. We learned that when we spoke to them after the attacks. That means they cannot identify their assailants in court. Sergeant Garcia returned the stolen funds at Zorro's request; hence, the evidence is gone. Zorro is the only person who can testify to following the tracks and finding the money on them," Diego retorted, clutching the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Alejandro half expected the wood to splinter under the stress. His son's shoulders were equally tense. He took a deep breath, choosing his next words wisely. "You do realize, Diego, that he is right?"

"Of course I realize that," Diego snapped. "I should have led the soldiers to their camp. Half the garrison would be able to testify then." He bolted to his feet and began pacing the floor like a caged tiger. "But instead, I brought the bandidos to the cuartel and now Morales is gloating… taking joy in every misstep I made that night." A clap of thunder rattled the walls, echoing the inner fury of the young man.

The older don sat there helplessly, watching as his troubled son came to a stop and rested his forehead on the wall. When Diego was a child, he always had the right words to make everything better. Now, when his boy needed him the most, he was speechless. He did not know how to make it better.

"I fouled up, Father. Those bandidos nearly beat Don Alfredo to death and now they are free because I made a lapse in judgment. What if they kill someone during their next attack?"

"We all make mistakes, Diego," Alejandro sighed. "It is a part of life. It's how we handle our mistakes that define us. Zorro can ride at night and keep an eye out for these ruffians. If they do return, he can lead the soldiers to them. In the meantime, I will alert the dons tomorrow at our meeting and we can take precautions, such as not riding alone."

Diego plopped heavily down in the chair.

Alejandro eyed him curiously. "You have been in this foul mood all day. There is more to your current state of mind than just the release of the bandidos," he prodded, "I have never seen anyone get to you like this before. Usually you would find someone like Capitán Morales a challenge, not resort to calling him a jackass. What is really going on?"

The warm glow of the hissing fire emphasized Diego's strained features, making him appear years older than his age. Alejandro saw a range of emotions flash in the distressed hazel orbs. The conditions outside seemed to mirror his son's private turmoil. Sheets of rain pelted the hacienda as more rumbles of thunder shook the walls. A sharp crack of lightning made him flinch.

Diego remained motionless, oblivious to the storm bearing down on the de la Vega rancho.

Sensing his question would go unanswered tonight, Alejandro slowly rose from his seat. He would just have to try again tomorrow. Patting his son on the shoulder, he murmured, "Buenas noches, mi hijo."

"You said something to me last night," the young don said softly.

Alejandro turned in surprise. "Diego, I am sorry I doubted your suspicions regarding Capitán Morales."

His son quickly interrupted, "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" Alejandro asked, furrowing his brow. "You understand I was only teasing you. It pains me to admit this, but I may have been a bit—only a little bit mind you—tipsy."

Diego chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "You said… you made a comment…" he struggled forming the sentence. "What if the commandante puts an end to the need for Zorro?"

His son lifted his head and stared directly at his father with an unreadable expression. Alejandro rubbed his chin and sat down again. "If he is a good leader, then it means you are free to live your life however you choose."

"That's just it, Father. I will not be free." He dropped his gaze again. "Every instinct in my body tells me there is more to our new capitán than meets the eye, but he has shown himself to be a solid and fair officer. What if my instincts are wrong? What if I want to find something deceitful about him to ensure Zorro is still needed? "

"Diego…"

"The people of our pueblo have suffered for so long. They should not have to fear reprisal for a minor slip of the tongue or losing all they worked for to a tyrant's whim. I should be happy a worthy officer has taken control of the garrison, but I… I'm not." Diego looked pleadingly at his father. "What does that say about their hero? It makes me no better than the corrupt officials who abused the people to begin with."

"That is nonsense," Alejandro stated resolutely.

"You do not think I am being selfish?"

"You have lived this double existence for two years. You cannot expect to give it up overnight. It will take time to readjust to life as it should be," he reassured. "No one will be happier for our pueblo to regain peace than you, my son." Grinning, he added teasingly, "Just do not act like this is the first time Zorro has faced retirement."

Diego crooked his head and sparks shone in his eyes for the first time that night.

"If Capitán Toledano had not been transferred to San Diego and summoned to Spain, he would have made a fine leader for our pueblo, too," Alejandro pointed out. "I remember that night at the tavern when Zorro saved his life quite vividly. He appeared ready to give up his masquerade if the threat to our people was over."

"That was nearly a year and a half ago," he scoffed. "And while I may have given you that impression, I knew of the continuing threat to our pueblo. Yet, it was not until Bernardo and I discovered the full reach of the Eagle's authority that I truly appreciated how necessary Zorro is."

"You were also ready to accept the governor's offer of amnesty."

"Must I remind you how that ended?" Diego laughed and this time it sounded genuine. "I was minutes away from making the biggest mistake of my life. I am grateful you stopped me."

Hearing the gratitude allowed a wave of relief to wash over the older don. The earlier qualms faded from his mind and he smiled. If only he could offer the same solace to his son. "If Capitán Morales is an honorable man, it does not mean Zorro's skills won't be required again one day. He may even recognize how helpful a black shadow is. An army officer does not have much power when a higher ranking government official is corrupt."

"Perhaps you are right, Father, that it is the start of a new era. Yet I cannot help but feel that our new commandante will have succeeded where others failed," Diego remarked warily, falling into his earlier despondent mood. "Zorro will not be needed, but he will still be hunted. Capitán Morales will have imprisoned him."

"I do not follow you."

"The fox will eventually fade into a distant memory, but the bounty will remain on his head. I… I will not be free to be myself," Diego confessed. "I need to be Zorro."

Alejandro suddenly comprehended his son's dread. He was always an adventurous child and now he lived the grandest adventure of all. Diego could not give it up. He would have to continue hiding his expertise with a blade and concealing his riding abilities. That meant no fencing, no participating in horse races, no harmless tricks on the lancers.

Diego would essentially be imprisoned. It would not be a jail made of steel bars, but a life without doing the things he loved was a prison nonetheless. Being himself would expose him as Zorro.

"What will I do, Father?"

The pleading look in the hazel eyes—eyes that reminded him so much of Isabella—broke his heart. For the second time that evening, Alejandro was speechless. His son faced a crisis and he was at a loss to help him. He could not save his wife and now he feared he would not be able to save their son.


	5. Chapter 5

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 5  
"Consequences"**

"Ah, Sergeant Garcia, just the man I wanted to see," Capitán Morales declared while inspecting repairs to the stable roof, his voice drifting over the grunts of lancers hard at work. The structure sustained some damage during the overnight storm, but the cuartel appeared to escape otherwise unscathed. Lancers swiftly cleared litter blown about by gusty winds from the courtyard.

Garcia hobbled his way from the barracks to where his commanding officer stood, stomped his boots and saluted. "You wanted to see me, Capitán?"

"Yes, Sergeant, I trust your inspection of the barracks went well."

"Sí, there is only one small leak over Private Delgado's bunk. We can use the leftover pitch to seal it."

"Excelente. Since all is going smoothly, you can join me for an early lunch in the tavern." Morales patted the larger man on the shoulder and waved for him to proceed. "Corporal, you are in charge of repairs."

"Sí, mi Capitán," Reyes replied, gazing longingly out the gate and straight at the posada.

"Lunch? In the tavern?" Garcia questioned, chewing his lower lip. Any concerns he held seemed to fade quickly from his mind; the expression on his round, stubble-covered face brightened and his smile spread from ear to ear. "Gracias, Commandante!"

"Good. Some of the citizens are rather upset with my decision yesterday. It's a wise idea for me to have a food taster along," Morales remarked. "I would hate to be another casualty among this pueblo's long list of commanding officers. Death by poisoned food was never my desired way to go…"

Garcia's head snapped in his direction. "P–P–Poisoned food," he stammered. "You want me to taste poisoned food?" His eyes were as wide as saucers.

"I am only joking, Sergeant," Morales chuckled. Garcia did not look convinced.

"There is nothing to worry about, Sergeant. Don Alejandro and Don Nacho already paid me a visit first thing this morning. We had a long discussion over recent events. While not overly thrilled with my decision, they do understand the law was upheld. The remainder of the citizens will come to realize this, too," the capitán reassured him while gently nudging him toward the gate.

As the two soldiers strolled across the plaza, no more than a few citizens glanced in their direction. It was back to avoiding eye contact with the new commandante after the release of the bandidos. Arriving at the tavern, they chose an empty table near the window.

A few customers peered up, but hastily dropped their gazes and returned to their conversations.

"It's not nearly as bad as I expected," Morales joked, but Garcia remained timid. Carlotta approached the table and he ordered a bottle of Madeira. The sergeant's eyes glittered with the mention of wine.

"I want to thank the commandante for letting the patrol return early last night."

"There is no need to thank me," Morales replied. "It's standard procedure to return to the cuartel at once when the weather turns dangerous." He settled back in the chair. "In fact, I am surprised you stayed out as long as you did. Had it been me leading the patrol, I would have been tucked in a warm bed hours earlier."

"Well, still, not all commandantes follow procedure," Garcia muttered and immediately stiffened.

"Ah, I take it you are speaking of one of my predecessors. So, was it Capitán Monastario or Magistrado Galindo who ordered you out into the storms?"

Garcia shrugged before muttering, "Both."

Morales chuckled at the sergeant's forlorn appearance, wondering just how many times the plump lancer got stuck in the rain. He did not have a chance to inquire about it; Carlotta delivered the bottle of Madeira along with two glasses. The warmth she radiated during his dinner with the de la Vegas was absent; she looked at him now with guarded suspicion.

After taking their orders, Carlotta grinned devilishly at the sergeant. "Do you want extra hot chili peppers with your _filetes empanados, con ajo_? Perhaps a few chilies mixed in with your potatoes and sautéed bell peppers. I will have a pitcher of water standing by."

"Do you want to drown me, woman?" Garcia asked in disbelief. "I do not want any chili peppers at all. I ate enough of them the other day to last me a lifetime." Carlotta giggled as she returned to the kitchen.

Taking a sip of the ruby red liquid, the capitán watched this playful exchange with great interest. "You did not tell me, Sergeant, that you and the señorita are an item."

"Me and Carlotta?" Garcia repeated incredulously and began laughing heartily aloud. "Oh, no, we are not seeing each other. She is still angry with me for locking up an Americano in the jail a few months ago. To tell you the truth, I think she was rather sweet on him." Still amused with the capitán's mistake, he drank from his glass. "On the day of your arrival, Carlotta and I exchanged a few words. I thought she was going to do something to my food in retaliation, so I switched plates with Corporal Reyes. Only she must have figured out what I was thinking and did not do anything. The corporal likes his tamales extra spicy…"

The rambling explanation made Juan dizzy.

"Not only did I have enough chili peppers to last me a lifetime, but I also drank enough water that I hope to never taste that evil liquid again!"

Morales stroked his goatee, valiantly suppressing a laugh of his own. "This explains a lot regarding the day we first met," he quipped, "and your aversion to water." He raised his glass for a toast. "Let us hope you never have to drink that 'evil liquid' again."

Garcia eagerly raised his own glass and then lowered it to his lips. The alcoholic refreshments apparently put him at ease in the presence of his commanding officer. "I also want to thank the commandante for not proceeding with the exercises this morning."

"Do not be so quick with the gratitude, Sergeant," he smiled. "It is merely a temporary reprieve."

"Oh," the disappointment in that utterance was as tangible as the cigar smoke in the room.

"The lancers are tottering about the pueblo looking as if they recently sat on a cactus," he shook his head in dismay, "and the spines are still stuck in their rears. I need them alert and able bodied until we are positive the three bandidos are long gone." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Besides, as my second-in-command, you will be accompanying me to the festivities at the Torres hacienda tomorrow evening. We need you at your best, sans the sore knees and back. Drills will resume next week."

Garcia stared sheepishly at the glass in his fingers.

Morales started to make one of his wry quips when he saw Carlotta nearing their table with a plate in each hand. She placed the officer's meal in front of him with a curt nod and turned to Garcia with a smile. "Is there anything else I can get for you, Sergeant?"

"Uh, no, gracias," he stammered, glancing shyly between his superior and the pretty barmaid.

Carlotta sauntered away to check on her other customers without as much as one single, fleeting glimpse in the capitán's direction. Juan smirked, first Moneta and now Carlotta. He certainly had a way with the women of Los Angeles. Draping a napkin on his lap, he picked up the silverware.

Garcia eagerly cut a bite from his breaded beef filets, raised the fork to his mouth and paused with fear in his eyes. He gazed warily at the food on his plate and the slice of meat he was prepared to eat.

"You will have to learn to get used to my sense of humor, Sergeant," Morales admonished, watching the scene in amusement. "If you do not, I fear your heart will give out on you. Or you will starve to death." He sampled his own food. "It's perfectly safe… and rather tasty, I might add."

Garcia carefully tasted the beef, chewing slowly before forcing the morsel down his throat. He followed it with a gulp of wine. With each successive forkful, his appetite increased two-fold until he ate with the vigor the capitán assumed was his customary attitude toward non-poisoned food.

"Speaking of Don Nacho," Morales conversed as they dined, "It amazes me how many of the upstanding citizens of this pueblo have been tried on charges of treason."

Garcia raised his head, "There have been quite a few, haven't there?" and delved into the potatoes.

"I have read the official reports of Señor Torres' arrest and trial. In the words of Aesop, 'Every side has two truths; it is as well to look at both before we commit ourselves to either.' Tell me, Sergeant, what is the other truth?"

Garcia looked at him in consternation.

"I thought we were past all that. You may speak freely about my predecessors without fear of reprisal."

"Well," the sergeant began, topping off his glass with liquid courage, "Don Nacho was a vocal opponent of Capitán Monastario and the capitán did not like it. They fought like cats and dogs. He had Licenciado Pina draw up treason charges against the don for meddling in government affairs. When Zorro appeared and helped Don Nacho to escape, the capitán was furious!"

"Oh, I can imagine." Morales grinned.

"After that, he tried to marry Señorita Torres. That way, he could get the rancho, the pretty girl and keep her father from speaking out against his rule. When she refuted him, the capitán arrested her and Doña Luisa, which did not sit well with Don Alejandro. He and the other dons attacked the cuartel to free them. It was a mess, but Don Nacho and Don Alejandro were found not guilty at a trial."

Garcia shifted uncomfortably, as if omitting something, but the officer did not press the matter. "The Torres and de la Vega families are very close, aren't they?" Morales inquired.

"Sí, they have been friends since before I was transferred to Los Angeles."

"Does it not seem strange to you, Sergeant, that Zorro first appeared right after Don Diego returned from Spain? And that Zorro's first act was to free Don Nacho Torres, a close de la Vega friend?"

"Do not make that mistake, Capitán," Garcia laughed, nearly choking on his food, "Zorro has saved Don Diego several times. It is impossible for them to be the same person."

"So I have read," Morales remarked. "According to reports, the fox is always near, yet they have never been seen side by side, have they? Not even when you used your friend as bait to capture the bandit. Why does Zorro not simply appear in the pueblo next to young de la Vega to put an end to these claims once and for all?"

"I have wondered about that myself," Garcia admitted. "El Zorro is a clever rascal. It would not surprise me if he found the whole thing amusing and purposely avoids Don Diego to fuel the silly rumors. As long as the wrong man is suspected of being the fox, no one will look for the real man behind the mask."

Damn, Morales silently cursed. The plump sergeant had a valid point; there was the distinct possibility Zorro was using de la Vega, or that they were in league with one another. While Juan _knew_ in his gut that de la Vega was Zorro, he could not afford to repeat mistakes of the past. He needed to maintain an open mind.

"Since it has been proven that they are not the same person, I wonder what Zorro will do now," Garcia continued, unaware of his superior's inner musings.

"Huh?" Morales muttered, not fully paying attention. "What do you mean it has been proven?"

"Two weeks ago, Don Diego was locked in my quarters, um, I mean your quarters," the sergeant quickly corrected, "while Zorro was at the tavern. It proves they cannot be the same person."

Juan grinned. This was the incident with Ramon Castillo he wanted to learn more about. "Did you station a lancer to guard the office while Don Diego was confined?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"There was no need to. He was locked in the room."

Garcia said it so naively that Morales did not know whether to chuckle or shake his head in dismay. "The window, Sergeant, he could have escaped out the window."

"Not with the bars on it, he couldn't."

"There are no bars on the window," Morales scolded. Were they even discussing the same subject?

"They are not there now, Capitán, but they were there two weeks ago," Garcia replied.

"I consider myself a patient man, Sergeant," Morales breathed slowly and deeply in an attempt to soothe his rising temper, "but you are trying that patience like no other. I advise you to start explaining these bars before you end up behind them."

The fork in Garcia's trembling hand clanked on the nearly empty plate. "Well, uh, it was about a month ago when a courier delivered new orders from Santa Barbara. A mandate had been issued that iron bars were to be installed on all windows to protect the cuartel in the event of an attack."

"Why were they removed?"

"After the blacksmith installed them, another courier arrived with orders for them to be removed. It was pointed out that in the event of a fire, the soldiers could get trapped," Garcia answered. "To think the government paid blacksmiths all across California to install iron bars and then to remove them, yet they never deliver our payroll on time. We have gone months without getting paid." His wave of nervousness faded and his hand steadied.

"A valid observation." Morales grinned. "What about the main door? If Don Diego unlatched the bedroom lock, he could have escaped the cuartel."

"Oh, no, Commandante, that is impossible. I had the only key and the lancers on watch in the courtyard would have noticed if Don Diego got loose. They did not want to lose the bet."

"The bet?" Morales repeated and quickly waved the other man off. "Forget it, Sergeant, I have had plenty of explanations for one day." He possessed the headache to prove it. "Have some more wine."

Garcia eagerly filled up his glass and they finished lunch in silence, much to the capitán's relief. All the while, Morales could not help but wonder… how in the hell did de la Vega pull it off?

* * *

Fastening the last medal to his uniform jacket, Capitán Morales stepped in front of the mirror and studied his reflection. He grinned; the new uniform certainly suited him far better than the lieutenant's he was accustomed to. Picking up the sheathed sword from the bed, he latched it to his belt. It was almost time to depart for Don Nacho Torres' party.

Gathering his hat and gloves, he paused to survey the quarters, his blue eyes stopping on the window and his thoughts wandering to his conversation with Garcia the previous afternoon. Upon returning to the cuartel after lunch and inspecting the last of the repairs, the sergeant led him on a tour of the terrain north of the pueblo. They continued the exploration this morning. During that time, the puzzle at hand had momentarily slipped his mind. How did de la Vega escape a locked door and barred window?

Stroking his goatee with his left hand, Juan tossed the hat and gloves onto the bed and carefully strolled around the room, paying close attention to each step in search of loose floorboards that might lead to a crawl space beneath the structure. He knelt down and pulled back the lone rug, but everything appeared solid. Rising, his gaze fell on the fireplace.

Moving closer, he bent down and peered up the hollow vent, mindful not to dirty his uniform. The last vestiges of sunset were visible above—and the space was just large enough for a grown man to fit. Morales stood and laughed heartily. So that's how de la Vega did it! His brow crinkled; someone must have helped him by throwing a rope down the shaft. His money was on the deaf mute servant.

With newfound enthusiasm, the capitán picked up the discarded items from the bed and strode into the office. The stacks of paper grabbed his attention. The fox would surely want to know what they contained. If Morales were in the bandit's boots, he would want to learn what his opponent was up to. What better night to pay a visit to the commandante's office? Everyone knew he would be at the celebration.

Juan smirked. No doubt Diego de la Vega would disappear and no one would be the wiser, while Zorro rummaged through his office. Only he was one step ahead.

He opened the main door and sent the lancer standing guard outside to fetch Private Rodriguez. A few minutes later, the soldier with the sprained wrist stood in front of the desk.

"Do you have civilian clothing, preferably dark in color?" Morales inquired.

"Sí, mi Capitán," Rodriguez replied, obviously confused. "I have brown trousers and a jacket."

"Good, I want you to change into them and meet me on the west side of the cuartel in ten minutes. This is an order. Speak of this to no one. Understood?"

"Sí," Rodriguez saluted and quickly exited the office.

When Morales rounded the corner outside the cuartel ten minutes later, Rodriguez was already waiting for him. "Very good, Private," he commended. "Do you know where that window leads?" He pointed over his shoulder.

"Your bedroom, Capitán?"

"Exactly. I want you to hide behind those bushes over there and keep an eye on that window. I want to know if anyone enters or leaves while I am gone. Observe only. You are not to interfere, under any circumstances, no matter whom you see. You are not to raise the alarm, even if el Zorro himself appears. Do you understand?" Morales asked.

"Sí, mi Capitán." The private scurried behind the bushes and Morales nodded approvingly. He was about to gain valuable insight into the fox's methods—the direction he approached from, where the black stallion stayed while his rider was inside and the direction in which he left. Valuable pieces of the puzzle that would aid in Zorro's capture.

* * *

A soft harrumph escaped Don Alejandro's lips as he walked into yet another empty room. The kitchen, sala and library were all void of his son. Pulling a pocket watch from his jacket, the don let out another, decidedly more irritated harrumph. They should already be on their way to the Torres hacienda. What was keeping Diego?

Shoving the watch back into a pocket, he crossed the patio, climbed the stairs and came to a halt outside Diego's door. When the knocks went unanswered, he tried the knob. It was locked. Alejandro threw his hands up in frustration and headed to his own room. Locking the door behind him, he pressed the button on the fireplace mantel to open the secret panel and stalked through the passages directly toward the secret room adjacent to Diego's quarters.

"Zorro's clothes are in the saddlebag. All you need to do is gather my hat and sword before you meet me behind the Torres hacienda with Tornado. There is a small woodshed several yards from the main house that should be out of eyesight tonight," Diego instructed. "Gracias, Bernardo."

"What is going on?" Alejandro inquired.

"While Capitán Morales is mending ways with the pueblo's residents tonight, Zorro will pay a visit to his unoccupied office," Diego explained. "I need to get a closer look at the records he is collecting to find out what he is up to. Bernardo will meet me later and I will quietly slip away from the festivities."

"Diego," Alejandro began, "this is to be a joyous occasion–"

"Tell that to Elena."

The dark, bitter disposition his son adopted the past few days tore at Alejandro's heart. "She agreed to this marriage. No one is forcing her into it." He sighed. "Diego, this is a celebration shared in the company of our friends with good food and fine wine. Zorro can afford to take one night off and it will do you good to relax and have fun."

Bernardo eagerly nodded, siding with the silver-haired don.

"But…"

"No buts," Alejandro playfully admonished. "There will be other nights to break into the commandante's office. It is not as if you haven't done it before."

"I suppose it would do me some good," the younger don conceded, a genuine chuckle emanating from his lips. Diego turned to Bernardo. "It looks like you have the night off as well, my friend. Have fun." As the de la Vega men each headed to their respective rooms, Bernardo began unpacking the saddlebag.

* * *

An upbeat guitar melody and soft laughs filled the air as Alejandro and Diego arrived at the Torres hacienda. Any qualms the older don had about being late were unfounded; a few guests mingled on the colorfully decorated courtyard, but they were comparatively early. The father and son made their way over to Don Nacho and his wife, Doña Luisa, to exchange greetings.

Noticeably absent were Elena and her fiancé, Don Gustavo Travieso.

"She is still upstairs still getting ready." Luisa smiled, motherly pride shining on her features.

"My future son-in-law is somewhere around here," Nacho added, glancing around the patio. "Ah, there he is. It looks as if Horacio and Julio have him cornered."

"You might want to rescue him," Alejandro chuckled. "If they are sharing tales about children, you may never hear the pitter patter of little feet." Combined, Don Horacio and Don Julio had over a dozen offspring.

"Perhaps Don Nacho should be more concerned with their wives cornering Elena," Diego joked, joining in the merry laughter. He had to admit the buoyant atmosphere greatly improved his spirits. Fully aware the familiar topic of grandchildren would inevitably turn to him, Diego politely excused himself, made a quick stop at the refreshments table and began chatting with some friends.

Guests continued trickling in through the front gate, including Don Bastion Maradona and his wife. She proudly wore the emerald necklace and earrings her husband bought as an anniversary gift. Señoras and señoritas eagerly crowded around Estela to get a closer look.

Observing the scene in amusement, Diego was surprised to spot Elena standing alone in the shadows near the far corner. He quietly strolled over to her, hoping to share a few words in private. "Buenas noches."

She gasped, raising her hands to her chest. "Oh, Diego, I did not hear you approach."

"Please forgive me. I did not mean to startle you."

Elena smiled shyly and returned her gaze to the crowd. "You are forgiven."

"This is your night," Diego said in a gentle voice, "so why are you standing here alone watching from afar instead of relishing the moment?" When she remained quiet, he asked a daring question. "Is this marriage what you truly want?"

"You have always been a good friend," Elena replied, "and I appreciate your concern. You are the first to ask me that." She turned to face him. "Sí, Diego, I do want to marry Gustavo. As much as I care for Benito, my father would never consent to such a union. Gustavo is a wonderful, kind man and I love him." The glitter in her eyes reinforced her words.

"That is all I wanted to know. I am very happy for you, Elena."

"Gracias, I suppose I am more nervous about the announcement than I originally thought, even though it is just a formality. Everyone in the district must be aware of our betrothal by now."

"It is a…" A commotion at the front gate caused Diego to trail off.

His father, along with Nacho were heading that way. A few of the more prominent hacendados followed closely on their heels. Diego spotted Don Alfredo Rivera, leaning heavily on a cane, hobbling in with the assistance of two of his vaqueros.

"Excuse me, por favor, while I inquire what is happening." He bowed to Elena and quickly took a place at his father's side. Knots formed in Diego's stomach when his sight fell on the dark bruises and cuts still healing on the don's face. The bandidos who did this were still out there ready to attack again... He felt his father's piercing eyes studying him and tried to brush the feeling away.

"Alfredo, I did not expect you to make it." Nacho fussed over the ailing man. "There are some cushioned seats over there," he pointed to an area a few yards from the gate, "let us get you comfortable."

"Is he here yet?" Alfredo asked.

Nacho raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"The capitán."

"No, he has not arrived yet," Nacho replied, throwing Alejandro a worried glance.

"I see that look. You two need not be so concerned about me," Alfredo spat. "I do not care what reasons Morales gave you for releasing those bandidos," a pained groan escaped his lips as they drew closer to the seating area, "I want him to look me in the face and tell me why he did it." Nacho helped lower him into the cushioned chair. "I am sorry, my friend," he sighed, "I do not wish to ruin your celebration, but I cannot simply let this go."

"We understand, Alfredo, and you are not ruining anything," Nacho responded. "We are all glad to see you out and about."

While the older dons hovered around Alfredo and started discussing current events, Diego slipped away, taking solace in the shadows just as Elena did moments earlier. She was now with Gustavo, her arm entwined in his, chatting with Estela and radiating beauty and happiness. Footsteps followed by an edgy feminine voice sounded from behind, drawing his attention.

"Do you really think he will have the nerve to show up?"

"Moneta," Diego playfully teased, "Do not tell me the new capitán has gotten on your bad side, too?"

"I do not trust him," she declared. "Considering how he handled those bandidos, I don't see how anyone else can trust him, either."

Diego chuckled, feeling more cheerful than he had all evening. Maybe it was because at least one person in addition to Bernardo shared his suspicions, even if he could not tell her outright. "If you recall, Capitán Toledano got off to a rough start in our pueblo. He turned out to be an honorable man."

Moneta shot him an inquisitive glare. "Are you saying I should not question his motives?"

"I am only saying that we should keep an open mind. The commandante did uphold the law. Sometimes, doing what is right can be the most difficult choice we make."

Her demeanor softened and she looked at him curiously. "You say that as if you have experience."

"It is a common theme among the philosophers," Diego responded smoothly. "French philosopher Denis Diderot once wrote, 'There is no moral precept that does not have something inconvenient about it.'"

"Was it not Confucius who said, 'Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue'? The new commandante is trying to win favor by following the law while still doing what is morally wrong," Moneta countered.

The corner of his lip curled up mischievously.

"Do you find Confucius that entertaining, Diego?"

"No, Moneta, it's just that it has been too long since we last debated philosophy. I have missed it."

"As have I," she agreed wistfully, staring off into the distance, "Well, speak of the devil."

He followed her line of sight. Capitán Morales entered, appearing just as impressive in bearing as he did the night in the tavern, with a hesitant Sergeant Garcia trailing behind. Don Alfredo struggled to his feet. "Let the fireworks begin," Diego offered his arm to Moneta, "Care to join me for a closer view?"

"You are on your own, Diego," she laughed.

"Gracias," he said, feigning offense.

Nacho already steered the commandante in the direction of the sitting area where Alfredo kept situated in an obvious effort to prevent the potential row from drawing too many eyes. Diego was eager to see how Morales smooth talked his way out of this. Alfredo was usually reserved and almost timid, but the brutal beating he faced at the hands of his attackers brought out a harsher side to his personality.

"Ah, buenas noches, Don Diego," Garcia called out, intercepting the young man's path.

"Buenas noches to you, Sergeant," Diego replied, throwing curious glances toward the small gathering forming around the capitán and his detractor. The plump soldier stepped in front of his view and the young don fully took in his friend's appearance. "I do not think I have ever seen you clean shaven before, nor with so many nicks and cuts on your cheeks."

"Ah, that is why we are late," Garcia elaborated. "I came out of the barracks all prepared to leave, but the commandante said I could not go to a party looking like I just rolled out of bed! Do you know how hard it is to shave when your superior officer is waiting on you? My hand was trembling."

"I can see that," Diego chuckled, slowly herding the lancer closer to Alfredo.

"It's so itchy when it grows back, too," he sighed, rubbing his bare chin. "And if that was not bad enough, Corporal Reyes pulled a disappearing act, so I also had to press my own uniform. I ruined a jacket and a pair of trousers before I got the hang of it."

Diego patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes tonight, Sergeant." They were finally in earshot and he could hear Morales speaking.

"I want to assure you, Don Alfredo, my decision was not made lightly and weights heavily on my conscience. Regrettably, there was insufficient evidence to render a guilty verdict. My men and I are taking every precaution to make sure they do not return to Los Angeles again."

Despite the capitán's smug attitude during his encounter with Zorro, Diego sensed honesty in his words now. He was also surprised Morales did not try to pin the blame for the bandidos' release on the masked outlaw. More than anything, though, he hated that he could not read this man. What was he up to?

Garcia kept rambling on about Corporal Reyes, something about the droopy lancer being in charge of the cuartel while the capitán and sergeant were away, causing Diego to miss hearing Alfredo's response. The two appeared to mend fences from their body language. Alejandro and Nacho accompanied Morales around the patio and introduced him to everyone. Alfredo settled into his chair and smiled for the first time that night.

"Why don't we get some refreshments, Sergeant?" Diego asked when Garcia finished his speech.

"That is an excellent idea, Don Diego," he beamed.

* * *

After a short break, the musicians picked up their guitars and began strumming an energetic number. Couples young and old moved to the open area of the courtyard and swayed to the music. Capitán Morales noticed Moneta Esperon standing next to her father and approached. "Señorita, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"

"I am sorry, Capitán," she started, "but–"

"Do not be so shy, Moneta," Cornelio interrupted, giving her a small nudge. "My daughter would be delighted to." She shot daggers at him with her eyes.

Juan held his hand out and she reluctantly took it. Leading her to the dance floor, he placed his other hand on her slender waist. "It is a beautiful evening with charming company."

"Sí, it is a beautiful evening," Moneta said, resting a hand on his shoulder, "but the company is more charming for some than for others."

"Did I do something to offend you?"

"You released the men who robbed my father and attacked Don Alfredo," she answered, staring defiantly into his eyes. "So, yes, Capitán, you did offend me."

"Are you going to hold that against me forever?" he teased.

"This is not a situation to make light of," she hissed.

"Who says I am making light of it?" Morales retorted. "I am simply trying to make witty banter with a pretty señorita who has already made up her mind that I am the enemy. Tell me, Moneta, had I hanged them, would I be lauded a hero or labeled a tyrant?"

Moneta turned her head downward as they continued dancing. "I am sorry, Capitán, perhaps I am being too harsh. It's just… it appeared you reached a final decision that afternoon visiting my father."

"To be honest, that's when it began to dawn on me where the facts of the case were leading," Morales acknowledged, "but I did not make that decision on a whim. Sometimes law is mind without reason."

"Aristotle. I am impressed, Capitán."

"Ah, you know your philosophers, Señorita," he grinned, "and please call me Juan."

Moneta relaxed in his arms and gave him the first warm smile of the night. "As you wish, Juan."

The two drew quiet, moving in harmony and savoring the music when Morales leaned in close and whispered into her ear, "I am not a wolf in sheep's clothing."

She immediately tensed, pushed him away and withdrew her hands from the fabric of his jacket as if the very touch would burn her delicate skin. "You… you were eavesdropping on us?"

Couples nearest to them slowed their paces, turning prying eyes to the new commandante and fiery señorita. "I couldn't help but overhear a little bit when I returned," he replied wryly.

"You did not forget your papers," she seethed, "it was a ploy to listen in on us, _Capitán_."

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you're angry?" he teased, but she did not find it amusing. Before Morales registered what was happening, Moneta raised her hand and slapped him hard across his left cheek. She picked up the folds of her dress and stalked into the hacienda with Cornelio trailing hurriedly on her heels.

The music stopped and everyone on the patio paused in uncertainty, awaiting his reaction. Juan rubbed his stinging cheek, nodded to a young couple a few feet away and winked. "She is a spirited one, isn't she?" With that, he walked confidently off the dance floor, gracefully snatched a fresh glass of Rioja from a servant carrying a tray and casually sat on a stone bench near some greenery.

Hushed whispers broke the eerie silence and the musicians cautiously began plucking the strings of their guitars to finish the song. Juan snickered; perhaps it was a poor choice of words to say to her.

"You have a remarkable way with women, Capitán."

Morales rose from the bench, "Ah, Don Diego, it is a pleasure to see you again. I would be happy to share my wisdom on the fairer sex. Just watch out for the slap. I do not recommend it."

Diego laughed. "I will keep that in mind, but hopefully I won't need to make use of that advice."

The dance finished and the guests clustered together in small groups, undoubtedly discussing the lively scene only moments ago. Juan raised the glass to his lips and sipped the ruby red liquid. "So I may avoid being the center of anymore," he paused, searching for the right word, "colorful disagreements this evening, may I inquire which beautiful señorita you are courting?"

"Are you afraid I will challenge you to a duel?" Diego asked mischievously.

"No, but you are the one person here who is still talking to me," Juan joked, "It would be nice to keep it that way for a while."

"No worries, Capitán, I am not courting any of the ladies at the present."

"Hmm, I find that quite interesting, Don Diego. A tall, handsome caballero like you should have the pick of any señorita he desires. Yet you came alone to this celebration?"

The young don shrugged. "The young women prefer their suitors to be dashing and adventurous, qualities I do not possess. Besides, I did not come alone. My father is here."

"Ah, yes, how could I forget? Don Alejandro introduced me to many of his friends earlier." Juan gazed over the crowd and spotted the silver-haired de la Vega on the far side of the patio. "You are still doing much better than me." He pointed to the refreshments table. "My date is Sergeant Garcia."

"You should be flattered," Diego laughed, "he even shaved for you."

"Had I known the result, I would have told him to keep the stubble. It is fortunate he did not slice his throat; it would have been difficult to explain in a report."

"Still, he is a good man and a loyal soldier who has not always been treated fairly by your predecessors." Diego looked directly at the capitán and there was a barely perceptible edge to the young don's words, almost like an unspoken warning, a warning from the fox. _Do not harm him, Capitán_.

"I agree; he is a good man," Juan replied. "Despite Sergeant Garcia's bumbling nature and penchant for wine and long-winded explanations, I am growing rather fond of him."

Diego nodded approvingly and added with a grin, "If you find the sergeant's explanations trying on their own, just wait until you encounter a conversation with him and Corporal Reyes together."

"I have caught a few a tidbits. Those two are… indescribable." Morales raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to Sergeant Garcia and Corporal Reyes. May they not impart too many headaches upon us."

Diego raised his own glass and they drank to the two lancers. The friendly display between the capitán and a de la Vega once again eased the weariness of the crowd, just as it did when the highly respected Don Alejandro invited Morales to dinner in the tavern. Voices were no longer hushed, merry laughter rang out and more music swiftly followed.

"Since you were kind enough to share your wisdom regarding women, Capitán, let me show you how wooing a señorita is really done. A dance should never end in a slap." Diego discarded his glass on a nearby table and approached Margarita Cortazar, a beauty Morales met shortly after arriving at the party. She blushed, offered her hand to Diego and he guided her to the open floor.

Not to be outdone by the young don, Morales scanned the crowd. The prettiest señoritas were quickly scooped up, but he noticed a young lady standing with an older man and woman that had not yet been claimed by an eager young caballero. Slender and petite with raven hair, she clutched a small pleated fan in her hands.

Raising the fan to her cheeks as he neared, she giggled and peered over the edge of it with shy eyes. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. He bowed. "Would you honor me with this dance?"

"Sí," she squeaked and handed the fan to the older woman before joining him.

Holding her close, postures straight, Juan stepped forward and led her in the bolero. Enjoying the beautiful girl in his arms and the romantic melody, the ambiance soon shattered.

"Oh, Capitán, I am incredibly flattered you asked me to dance. I thought you would sit off to the side for the rest of the evening after Moneta slapped you. I do not know why she did that, but I can tell a strong, handsome military man like you would never deserve it."

Juan's brow furrowed. She continued blathering even as he let go of her waist to spin her.

"Oh, we have not been properly introduced. I am Sofía Pavia from Santa Inés. My parents are traveling in Mexico and I am staying with my aunt and uncle in Los Angeles while they are gone. You are new in this pueblo, sí?"

She did not pause long enough to allow for an answer.

"My Uncle Nazario has taken ill, that is why my parents are in Mexico. Oh, not Uncle Ruperto, who I am staying with now. Uncle Nazario is my father's brother; Uncle Ruperto is my mother's brother. I do not want to confuse you. I stay with him and Aunt Beatriz whenever mother and father travel."

It wasn't so much that Sofía kept babbling on incessantly that bothered Juan the most, it was her distinctively high-pitched tone that grated on his nerves. Combined with her rapid-fire speech, she sounded like a chipmunk. Every 'oh' that escaped her lips made him wince.

"Oh, I don't always stay with Uncle Ruperto and Aunt Beatriz. Sometimes I stay with my widowed aunt in San Miguel. Mother and father travel several times a year…"

Morales struggled to form a weak smile as the other couples around them watched the scene in delighted fashion. He glimpsed Diego and Margarita chuckling, a smug expression on the young don's features.

After what seemed an eternity, the song concluded. His escape proved not so easy. Sofía clung to his arm as he tried to return her to her aunt and uncle, but she expertly steered him in the opposite direction. A new tune started up and fear clutched at Juan's heart.

Passing a young caballero, Juan whipped his head around. "What was that, Señor? Of course you may have the next dance with Señorita Pavia." He quickly pushed her toward him and made a hasty exit. It was a dirty trick, and he felt bad for his innocent victim, but the boy would survive. Grabbing the first drink he could find, he savored the rich taste of the wine.

"I see you had the pleasure of meeting Sofía," Diego remarked, barely keeping a straight face, as he and Margarita joined the commandante.

"The pleasure was all hers," Morales quipped.

"She is not that bad, Capitán," Margarita chided.

"And she seems quite smitten with you," Diego observed.

"Do not even joke about that, Don Diego," Morales cringed, "I pity the man who marries her even if he is deaf. No wonder her parents travel so much." He took another swig of wine. "She regaled me with her life story, yet I am not entirely clear on how long she will remain in Los Angeles."

"Probably another three to four weeks," Margarita responded.

"Enough time for you two to become better acquainted," Diego interjected cheerfully.

The lovely Señorita Cortazar giggled. "I am sorry, Capitán, but Sofía is rather taken with you." Margarita pointed to the chipmunk who gazed longingly at the commandante instead of the caballero whose arms she was in—and she still chatted up a storm.

Juan rubbed his ear. The thought of her squeak made his tender eardrums ache. Eager to turn the tables on de la Vega, he casually changed the subject. "Perhaps I should inquire of Don Alejandro how those grandchildren of his are coming along?"

"Touché, Capitán," the young don nodded.

"Speaking of your father and grandchildren, there is something that has been nagging at me since the night we dined together in the tavern. Don Alejandro made it sound as if you are the clumsiest swordsman in California."

Diego's gaze lowered to the ground. "It is certainly not a reputation I am proud of."

"That is what I cannot comprehend. Nothing about you is clumsy, Don Diego. Every move, from the way you hold a crystal goblet to the way you float on the dance floor, conveys effortless poise and elegance. Add to that alert eyes, nimble steps and impeccable posture… You carry yourself with the grace of a fine swordsman."

"I am truly flattered, but you have read me all wrong."

While the don's outward demeanor remained good-natured, the capitán detected a subtle tensing in his shoulders. "How is that you attended the second best university in Spain for three years," Morales could not resist needling his verbal sparring partner a bit, "and did not learn even the basics of fencing? It is required coursework."

"May I remind you I left my studies early," Diego clarified, "and Madrid is home not only to the finest university in Spain, but in all of Europe."

"All right, a truce, eh?" Morales laughed, "I promise not to take any more jabs at your alma mater. Now, how many fencing classes did you participate in?"

"I did attend a few initial sessions, but I found them rather dull," Diego shrugged. "I suppose you could say fencing is the reason I did not finish my studies."

"As proud as I am of my Seville roots," Morales confessed, "I would have relished the opportunity to study under Colonel Federico de Cuevas in Madrid! He is the finest sword master in the world."

"Yes, the students did speak highly of him," Diego replied casually.

"That's an understatement," Morales scoffed, "Only the elite advance to his program—and he has the final say on each. Fathers have tried bribing him to teach their wayward sons, but his ethics will not be compromised. Not even the royal family can sway his opinion. Colonel de Cuevas is a living legend, respected by all."

"Perhaps Capitán Morales could give you lessons, Diego."

Startled, the commandante snapped his head to Señorita Cortazar, having completely forgotten her presence. He was relieved that de la Vega also appeared to forget she was standing there.

The young don was the first to recover. "I am sorry, Margarita, if we are boring you."

"Not all, Diego, this is fascinating," she replied. "You said you are not proud of your reputation as a clumsy swordsman. The capitán is very knowledgeable on this subject and senses you have untapped potential. Perhaps he would be kind enough to offer you lessons."

"That is an excellent idea, Señorita." Morales grinned. "What do you say, Don Diego?"

"I am not sure what to say."

"Say yes, Diego," Margarita encouraged.

"I do not want to impose on the commandante. He has important duties to uphold."

"Nonsense," Morales declared, "It is no imposition at all. If Sergeant Garcia can find time to call the tavern a second home, I can find time to keep my skills sharp. I'd consider it an honor to teach you and you would be doing me a favor."

Inwardly, Juan beamed from ear to ear like a five-year-old. Cornering de la Vega and making him squirm was more entertaining than playing games with Capitaine de Rochambeau in the Pyrenees. How could Diego say 'no' to an offer like this, particularly with the added pressure of Margarita's encouragement? Yet the don could not agree lest he reveal his real skill with the blade.

Yes, this was infinitely more fun than the games with de Rochambeau.

The intrusion of Don Cornelio Esperon suddenly interrupted his game. Following a little bit of small talk with the group, he turned embarrassedly to Morales. "Pardon me, Capitán, I want to apologize for my daughter's behavior earlier. I do not know what has gotten into her."

A satisfied expression formed on Diego's face. "We will continue our discussion at a later date, eh, Capitán?" He led Margarita to the dance floor and just like that, the fox waltzed out of the trap.

With a disappointed sigh, Morales reassured Cornelio that it was simply a misunderstanding and no offense was taken. As the relieved don scurried away, Juan went to sit down when he glimpsed Sofía heading his way. His ears pulsated in protest. Could the night get any worse? He bolted upright and vanished into the throng of people, spending the rest of the evening hiding from Señorita Pavia.

* * *

Reins in hand, the de la Vega men cued their horses into a walk and departed the Torres hacienda. They rode in silence under the faint glow of a sliver of moon, the soft thuds of hoof beats resonating in the tranquil night air. Once out of earshot of any fellow partygoers, Diego brought his father up to date on his conversation with Capitán Morales.

"He even offered me fencing lessons," Diego smirked.

The roguish spark reignited and it was obvious the younger de la Vega found the repartee with the commandante amusing, even intriguing. Despite his own growing anxiety on the subject, relief washed over Alejandro that his son was no longer brooding. He chuckled. "Maybe you should take him up on the offer."

"Now you sound like Margarita."

"I will regard that as a compliment."

"I do admit it's tempting," Diego revealed, before turning serious. "From the way Morales spoke, it was as if he _knew_ I studied under Colonel de Cuevas. As if he was trying to get a reaction out of me." He looked at his father. "Do you think the capitán suspects who I am?"

The exchange became eerily reminiscent of the one three nights ago, when they rode home from the tavern with Bernardo. Only this time, Alejandro shared his son's concerns. "I don't know, Diego," he replied honestly. "Most Californios have never traveled to Spain, let alone attended a university. It could be the capitán sees you as a kindred spirit in an unfamiliar land. As an aficionado of fencing, he is eager to discuss a topic he enjoys."

"We are only suspicious because of my nightlife, eh?"

"It would be the logical conclusion."

"But you are not convinced," Diego discerned.

"No," Alejandro reluctantly admitted.

"I just wish I was able to decipher his motives." Diego sighed. "He took full responsibility for releasing those bandidos when he could have laid the blame on Zorro. So why taunt me, if they are indeed taunts? What purpose does it serve? One thing is for certain: Capitán Morales is quite the enigma." He flashed a white toothy grin. "This is an excellent mystery for Zorro to invest–"

Two loud booms shattered the still air.

The horses neighed and pranced nervously under their riders. "Those were gunshots!" Alejandro exclaimed, gently patting Everardo on the neck to calm him.

"It sounded like they came from further down the road," Diego declared, digging his heels into his Palomino's sides and urging his horse into a gallop.

Alejandro wasted no time in following his son. They raced in the direction of the shots, pulling their horses to a stop at the harrowing scene that met them. Don Bastion Maradona lay bleeding in a carriage, his wife clinging to him and sobbing uncontrollably.

Alejandro glanced at Diego and saw the color draining from his son's face as they dismounted and ran to help. The older de la Vega pulled his cravat off and pressed it to the wounded man's chest. "Are you hurt, Estela?" he asked.

"N… no," she managed between sobs, "but Bastion… my Bastion…"

Diego handed his cravat to his father who tried desperately to control the bleeding. Removing his jacket, he folded it and carefully placed the makeshift pillow under Bastion's head. Thunderous hoof beats in the distance drew nearer; they both tensed and shifted to see who was approaching.

* * *

Crossing open desert from one road to another, the white mare flew toward the gunshots, kicking up tufts of dust and dirt in her wake. Commanding the horse to stop, Capitán Morales swung from the saddle. Alejandro and Diego de la Vega huddled to one side of a carriage, so he approached from the other.

Placing one boot on the floorboard, Juan leaned forward, peering around a crying Doña Estela. His heart sank as he took in the view before his eyes—a gravely wounded Don Bastion. Juan had seen gunshots of this magnitude in battle and they were never pleasant. Few recovered from such trauma.

"What happened?" he inquired.

"We got here just moments ago. Bastion has been shot twice in the torso," Alejandro replied and turned to his son. "Nacho's hacienda is closest. Diego, fetch Doctor Avilla and meet us there."

Morales watched as the younger de la Vega leaped on his Palomino and galloped off at a breakneck speed. He gently grasped Doña Estela by the elbow to get her attention. "Señora, who did this?"

Still clutching her husband's arm, she faced the capitán. That's when Juan noticed the large red mark on her cheek that would likely develop into an ugly bruise. "Three men…" she managed between sobs, "robbed us… took my jewelry… Bastion didn't fight…" Her voice waned, "T… they shot him... struck me."

Three men. The bandidos he released from jail.

Juan fought a wave of dizziness and felt bile rising in his throat. Those bastards returned to Los Angeles and did this. He released them and they shot an innocent man, a man who blissfully awaited the birth of his first grandchild.

The arrival of Sergeant Garcia, who trailed behind the capitán, gave Juan focus and prevented him from becoming sick. Lowering his boot from the carriage, Estela grasped his wrist. Her red, swollen, watery eyes bored directly into his.

"My husband did not fight, but they shot him anyway."

Swallowing hard, Juan looked away, the guilt eating at his soul. She released her grasp and he strode to Garcia, who gaped at the scene in sheer horror. While quickly bringing the lancer up to speed, he studied the tracks in the dirt as best he could in the limited light.

"These bastards are heading south. Sergeant, ride immediately to the cuartel and coordinate two groups of lancers," Morales commanded. "Corporal Reyes is to lead his men to the west and search the routes along the coast. You are to take your men east and cover the trails in the mountains."

"Sí, Commandante."

"If you bump into the patrol on the way, send them to the Torres hacienda. Otherwise, leave word at the cuartel they are to meet me there. I will lead them in a search of the territory in between." Morales pulled a pocket watch from his jacket and glanced at the time. "If you do not find any trace of these bandidos by zero four hundred hours, return to the cuartel and we will regroup for a daylight search. If you catch their scent, send a lancer with coordinates."

"Sí, Commandante," Garcia began, "but I do not have a watch."

"Here," Morales tossed his watch to the plump soldier.

"Uh, Corporal Reyes does not have a watch, either."

Morales inhaled sharply and clenched his knuckles so tightly they turned white. He walked over to the carriage. "Don Alejandro, do you have a w–"

"In my pocket," he answered hurriedly.

The capitán reached into the don's jacket, pulled out the object, walked back and handed it to Garcia.

"What about you, Commandante?"

Morales blinked hard, inhaled another deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I will be fine," he raised an arm, pointed toward the pueblo and shouted, "Now go!" The sergeant rode off and Juan massaged his temple.

"I need your assistance, Capitán."

"You have it, Don Alejandro."

Juan tethered their mounts to the rear of the carriage, coaxed Doña Estela from her husband and helped her into the back of the vehicle. He and Don Alejandro carefully scooted Don Bastion to the middle of the seat. The older de la Vega perched on one side, maintaining constant pressure on the gunshot wounds, and Juan squeezed in on the other. Taking the reins in hand, he slowly maneuvered the team of horses around and proceeded to the Torres hacienda.


	6. Chapter 6

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 6  
****"The Lady and the Officer"**

Powerful horse hooves drummed against the soft earth as Tornado and his rider sprinted toward the Pueblo de Los Angeles. The usually comforting blend of chirping crickets and hooting owls that filled the early morning air was but a cruel joke to the man under the mask; images of a gravely injured Don Bastion Maradona haunted his thoughts.

There was blood, so much blood. More than Diego had ever witnessed. Sobs, screams and fear permeated the Torres hacienda as Doctor Avilla operated on his patient and offered a grim prognosis. It was Diego and his father who assisted the physician by holding Bastion down as he drifted in and out of consciousness during surgery.

Nearing the cuartel, the black stallion slowed his pace. Following a cursory inspection of the area to make sure the lancers were still out hunting the bandidos responsible for the shooting, the fox maneuvered his mount to the west side of the building. It was approaching zero four hundred hours and the soldiers would be returning shortly.

The shutters to the capitán's quarters were unlocked. Zorro swung a leg over the saddle, grasped the windowsill and began crawling into the room when a slight rumbling drew his attention. He lowered himself back onto the horse. The odd sound reverberated again. Zorro patted Tornado's neck in a calming gesture and the two moved closer to the source.

The fox chuckled lightly when he glimpsed a man dressed in brown clothes fast asleep in the nearby bushes. When the snoring figure shifted just enough to allow the moonlight to caress his face, Zorro stiffened. It was Private Rodriguez.

So, Capitán Morales expected the masked outlaw to pay a visit to his office during the festivities surrounding Elena's engagement. And if Diego happened to disappear for a little while…

Zorro was suddenly grateful that his father convinced the fox to take the night off. The new commandante entertained enough suspicions of him as it was. However, if the fox had ridden, the evening's outcome might have been different. Don Bastion might not be fighting for his life…

He shook the notion from his head. There were more important matters to attend to right now. If the snoring served as any indication, Rodriguez was not going to wake soon, so he guided Tornado to the window once again and climbed into the capitán's bedroom.

Crossing to the door leading to the office, Zorro paused, listening for signs of occupants before cracking it open. The room was black as ink; the drapes drawn tightly closed. As long as he had a few minutes before the capitán arrived, he may as well take advantage of it.

Borrowing a lantern off the nightstand in the bedroom, he located matches in the drawer below. Zorro placed the gentle glowing light on the desk and started shuffling through the papers. They were all standard documents he had seen previously: official reports, visitor logs, land records and maps.

A partially buried leather bound book caught his eye. The fox slid it out from under the stack of files. The style did not match the other logs. It was the same one Morales wrote in when the 'pueblo's avenging angel' interrupted him. He began examining the contents.

Names and dates were transcribed in neat lists. All males living in the district were inventoried in alphabetical order. Some had a series of tally marks next to them. Diego de la Vega was void of such marks. The dates of all known appearances of the bandit acknowledged as el Zorro followed in chronological order.

Morales assigned subsequent pages to each of those appearances. Labeled at the top with the day in question, he accounted for every detail: locations, times, witnesses, when and where the outlaw was last seen…

A steady gloved finger traced over the handwriting, belying concerned hazel eyes absorbing the information. Capitán Morales desired to catch a fox and he tackled it in a very methodical way. The journal represented a work in progress, the tallies coinciding with witnesses.

With bated breath, Zorro searched the commandante's notes for those times when Diego de la Vega crossed paths with the fox, looking for some indication of why the officer seemingly set his sights on the young don prior to even meeting him.

A commotion outside made him jump. Hastily shoving the book under the papers, the figure clad in black disappeared into the safety of the shadows.

* * *

Directing his mare through the open gates of the cuartel, a small troop of lancers trailing behind, a defeated Capitán Morales nearly collided with Corporal Reyes and his regiment in the courtyard. His eyes shot to the jail. It was empty.

He heaved a sigh and allowed his shoulders to slump forward upon realizing they, too, were unsuccessful in the pursuit. Any remaining energy drained from his body as he dismounted and thrust the reins at a private. So much land to cover and so little manpower; how was he going to catch the bastards?

"Any trace at all of the assailants, Corporal?"

"No, Commandante," Reyes replied.

"When Sergeant Garcia returns, notify me immediately."

He forced his weary spirit to cling to the hope that the sergeant would stumble onto their tracks. At this very minute, one of his men could be hurrying to the pueblo for reinforcements. On the other hand, Garcia could simply be lost. The forlorn thought stirred a new wave of anger as he stalked to his office and slammed the door shut.

Morales leaned forward, palms on the front edge of the desk. His brow crinkled at the sight of the burning lamp. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to chew out the soldier who carelessly left the fire burning in an unattended room. It would not be fair to unleash his fury on an unsuspecting lancer. He needed to suppress the guilt just a little longer, until he caught the shooters. Another deep breath and he banged his fist on the writing surface.

"Buenos días, Commandante."

Morales whipped his head around and instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. A black shape emerged from the shadows and he dropped his hand. "I am not really in the mood to converse with you right now," he quipped. It was true. He did not want to have this conversation under the cloud of suffocating remorse threatening to envelope him.

"You may have a change of heart when you hear what I came to say," Zorro remarked. "The bandidos who shot Señor Maradona are tied up courtesy of a Good Samaritan."

A fleeting wave of relief washed over the weary capitán, replaced with a secondary upsurge of abhorrence. While chasing the desperados, he could channel his heavy conscience into the hunt by focusing his eyes on the tracks in the dirt, attuning his ears to the sounds of voices and rustling, keeping his nose alert for the scent of a campfire.

Even as they regrouped, he could direct that culpability into planning the next move. Yet, in a blink, Zorro snatched the false comfort away and left him alone with his guilt. So Morales coped with his emotions the way he always did. He snickered. "This Good Samaritan doesn't happen to share your affinity for slicing Z's into clothing, does he?"

"There are no Z's," the fox said softly. "Take the old mining trail on the eastern edge of Don Carlos Fernandez's rancho that leads into the foothills. Stay to the right at the fork and continue riding for another ten miles. You cannot miss them. I only ask that you show leniency to the one called Fidel. He did not have a weapon and displayed remorse over the attack."

Morales could not believe his ears. "Now you are dictating to me how the law is to be carried out?"

"The stolen pieces of jewelry and two recently spent pistols are in their possession," Zorro stated, blatantly ignoring the officer's pointed question. "It should be enough to hold them this time."

The unspoken accusation sent fresh blood rushing to his head. Temples pulsating, Morales rounded the desk and came to a stop within an arm's reach of his adversary. "Do not dare blame this on me," he seethed through clenched teeth. The nerve of this masker to break into his office and censure him!

Zorro did not flinch and firmly held the officer's gaze. "They are the same men who attacked Don Cornelio Esperon and Don Alfredo Rivera. At this very second, Don Bastion is fighting for his life. It did not have to happen."

"Something we agree on," Morales asserted. "But if you're seeking someone to blame, my advice is to look in a mirror. When a citizen takes the law into his own hands, tragedy is imminent. You were bound to get an innocent person killed one day," he paused for emphasis, "if you haven't already."

"Are you familiar with the Fernandez rancho, Capitán?" Zorro derided. "The bandidos doubled back, slipping right past your patrols. If not for me, they would still be out there, ready to attack again."

Morales' fingers curled into fists at his sides. "You are sorely mistaken if you think I must answer to–" A cautious knock on the door caused him to snap his head in that direction. "Enter."

A skittish Corporal Reyes gave the appearance of a man stepping into the den of the tiger. Glimpsing around, he peered uneasily at his superior. "Sergeant Garcia has returned."

"Good," Morales nodded. "Have his unit's horses remained saddled."

The corporal wasted no time in leaving and the capitán turned to the stairs leading to his bedroom. Zorro was gone and the suffocating cloud swirled. He rubbed his hands over his face. Amid the bitter taste, a small part of him took satisfaction that de la Vega slipped. How else would the fox have known of the missing jewelry?

More than anything, he was still reeling from the encounter with the masked annoyance. Inhaling deeply, Juan reached for the ceramic carafe atop the table and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall in a burst of shards, the sound echoing in the office.

Morales exited the confining space and strode toward the group of soldiers awaiting his presence. He motioned to Sergeant Garcia and four privates. "Mount up," he ordered. "Sentries, return to your positions. The rest of you get some sleep." He swung onto the back of his white mare and waved his arm, "Follow me."

* * *

The slightest flicker caught the corner of Zorro's eye as he advanced toward the window in the commandante's bedroom. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make certain Morales was not in pursuit, he moved closer to investigate.

Propped on the floor next to a trunk in the corner sat a leather briefcase. The moonlight must have glinted off the metal clasp. It was such an innocent object, yet something about it sent a shiver up his spine. Perhaps because such attaché cases were usually the status symbols of high-ranking officials and lawyers, not military officers assigned to dusty outposts.

As he reached for it, a loud crash shattered the stillness and his hand jerked away. Tossing one more glance back, he decided it was best to return on a different night. His emotions were too raw; he feared they might betray him if Morales pressed the issue. Besides, Diego needed to be at the Torres hacienda.

Climbing out the window and onto a waiting Tornado, he mustered up a smile when he heard crunching in the bushes. Private Rodriguez stood bolt upright, brows nearly touching his hairline. The lancer's mouth dropped open in alarm, but he promptly clamped it shut.

"Adiós, Private," Zorro saluted and rode off into the dark morning.

* * *

Warm daylight settled on the slumbering figure, encircling dark lashes in an endeavor to pry closed lids open. Juan's nose crinkled in protest and he draped a crooked elbow over his face. Following several long minutes of lying in that position, he lowered his arm.

He rubbed weary eyes to alleviate the stinging sensation, kicked the covers off and forced his legs over the side of the bed. Concentrating on the clock, he blinked hard. It was after a half past eleven. He managed to squeeze in five hours of sleep, though it felt like a mere tease to his exhausted body.

Rising to his feet, he stretched stiff muscles and observed his half-dressed state of appearance in the mirror. Clad only in his uniform trousers, his jacket and shirt were flung on a chair, his boots and sheathed sword discarded on the floor. Picking them up, he gathered a clean set of clothes from the wardrobe and filled a bowl on the table with water from an adjacent pitcher.

Once washed and presentable, Juan entered his office and stared at the broken shards of the carafe littering the ground. Ignoring the mess, he walked outside and found Corporal Reyes chatting with the lancers stationed at the gate.

"Has there been any update on Don Bastion's condition?"

"No, Commandante." Reyes looked and sounded more languid than usual—if that was at all possible. "The doctor hasn't come back yet. We don't know if that's good or bad."

"I presume Sergeant Garcia is still asleep?"

"Sí," Reyes confirmed, "and snoring like a pig."

A faint smile formed on the capitán's lips. "I will be riding out to Don Nacho's hacienda after a quick bite to eat," he patted the corporal on the shoulder, "You are in charge while I am gone."

The corporal's expression grew large with shock. "Me?"

"Sí, you," Morales pointed at the smaller man's chest and chuckled, enjoying the reaction. He gazed at the jail and turned serious. "The soldiers are to stay away from the cells in my absence. The prisoners are to be given nothing. Not even a drop of water. Do you understand?" He did not want to risk an escape attempt by the dangerous bandidos.

"I understand, Commandante," Reyes said.

"Good," Morales nodded, "I trust you will do fine."

Deciding on a few pieces of fruit to soothe his grumbling stomach, Juan swung onto the milky white mare's back and proceeded to the home of Don Nacho. Urging Hero into an easy trot, he struggled to keep his mind on the rolling hills. Images of the previous night lurked on the far edges of his vision, threatening to break through the mental blockade.

Observing the gently curving path, studying the contours of the mountains in the distance and relishing the cool breeze on his face, he felt the shadows dissipating until a voice whispered in his ears.

_My husband did not fight, but they shot him anyway._

The tone was sad at first, but it played over and over, each time becoming more accusatory.

_It's your fault, Commandante. It's your fault._

A cold shiver prickled his neck. Blinking hard and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, his eyelids fluttered open. Juan gasped in horror.

Doña Estela's red, swollen and watery eyes bored directly into his own.

Digging his heels into Hero's side to drive her into a gallop, he raced away from the clutches of the waking nightmare, leaving it to haunt the dust far behind them. He sighed in exalted relief when the Torres hacienda finally emerged on the horizon.

Five horses stood tethered to the hitching post outside the main gate. Each wore a different brand. Judging by the heavily worn path and numerous fresh hoof prints leading to the stables, Morales suspected these were not the only visitors and wondered how many angry hacendados were prepared to bear down on him.

He grinned; this he could deal with.

Securing his mount's reins next to the others, he opened the heavy wood door. About a dozen of Los Angeles' most influential caballeros inhabited the patio. Some sat while others leaned against walls. None heard him enter. Morales shut the door with a thud and all eyes aimed in his direction.

Don Sebastian rose to his feet. "You are not welcome here."

"Considering this is not your home, you are in no position to make such claim."

"You are full of impudence," Don Tomas declared.

"So I have been told," Morales smiled, removed his hat and bowed slightly, "Gracias."

"The townspeople have spoken of your flippant humor," Don Sebastian remarked, taking lead of the group. "It is no more welcomed here than you." He pointed at the gate. "Leave at once."

"My business is with Don Nacho and Doctor Avilla. Please notify them of my arrival." Morales sauntered to a table at his right, set his hat down, picked up an open bottle of wine and examined the label. He poured some of the ruby red liquid into a clean goblet. "I'll wait," he raised the glass to the crowd.

All of the hacendados were now on their feet. They shared deliberate nods and moved to block the path to the hacienda's front door. "You will have to go through us," Don Sebastian challenged.

After sipping the sweet vintage, Morales set the goblet down. "That can be arranged." His left hand fell to the hilt of his blade. "I would suggest you rethink that stance." He peacefully subdued desperate rebels in Zaragoza; exerting his authority on a bunch of pudgy dons who fancied themselves protectors would be easy.

"We shall see who reconsiders." Don Sebastian glanced around the patio. "Get me a sword."

A murmur swept over the crowd.

"Don't, Sebastian," pleaded one of the caballeros in the middle of the pack.

"You cannot duel him," another advised.

"Do not tell me what to do," Don Sebastian growled. "Who has a sword?"

They continued bickering, with some men supporting Sebastian and others decrying him. Chuckling, Morales shook his head at the display put on by the leading citizens of the pueblo. They acted like children squabbling over a toy. While they sorted out their differences, he took another sip of wine. To think he shared a name with this fool! A sheathed rapier suddenly materialized amid the men.

"Señores, señores, please," called a voice from the rear.

It stunned Morales to see Diego de la Vega emerging from the house and weaving to the front of the crowd. He was dressed in a clean suit free of bloodstains, but his appearance spoke of the long night. Dark circles took up residence under his eyes, accentuating his pale skin and unkempt hair.

Juan snickered; at least the fox was not immune to stress.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?" Diego asked.

"Stay out of this, Diego," Don Sebastian chided, pivoting on the newcomer with a naked blade.

"Sebastian is going to duel the capitán," Don Cornelio chimed in.

Diego stepped to the side and pushed the sword away by its hilt. He glanced at the commandante. Juan detected a flash of annoyance in his expression. "Don Sebastian, you cannot fight the capitán."

"What would you know of such things, Diego?" Don Sebastian reprimanded. "Return to the house with the women where you belong."

Juan snorted.

Young de la Vega pleaded with his neighbors, "Señores, have you all gone mad?"

"The capitán is not welcome here, Diego," Don Tomas elucidated. "As he refuses to leave, Sebastian must teach him some manners. And perhaps whittle that sharp tongue of his down in the process."

"Is that what this is about?" Diego asked in disbelief. "Capitán Morales is the commandante of our pueblo. He is sworn to uphold the law and to investigate this senseless act of violence. He has every right to be here, perhaps even more so than we do." He fixed an angry stare at the older man. "The capitán shows his respect by riding out here to personally inquire about the condition of our friend and you react by calling him out—by wanting to fight him?"

"He released those… those… ruffians," Don Sebastian fumed.

"As the law dictated," Diego countered. "He is no more to blame than you or I or any of us."

Surprised by the unexpected support, Morales quirked an eyebrow and regarded the young caballero carefully. Either de la Vega was much better at living a double life than he initially gave him credit for or they were wrong about him.

Diego placed a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "Don Bastion would not want this."

"Diego is right," Don Gustavo said softly. "We are letting our tempers get the better of us."

"Sí," came more murmurs from the group. As the tide turned against Sebastian, he reluctantly slid the rapier into its scabbard. Diego walked toward the gate and motioned for Morales to join him. Gathering his hat, the capitán followed.

"That was some show your friends put on," Juan remarked jovially once they were outside. "It's not every day esteemed landowners act so foolishly."

"I got the impression you were enjoying it," Diego observed, the corner of his lip curling upward in shared amusement. "Naturally, you had the situation under control."

Juan smiled. "Naturally."

"Does this mean you will not haul them off to jail or charge them with treason?"

Juan crossed his arms over his chest. "Should I?"

"It has been the standard procedure for many of your predecessors."

"There was no malicious intent. I understand their frustration and I sympathize with it," Juan said. "Never do anything when you are in a temper, for you will do everything wrong."

"Baltasar Gracián," Diego noted the source of the quote.

Juan nodded. "I do want to thank you for your support, Don Diego. It means a great deal." His expression turned somber. "How is Señor Maradona?"

"He is… It is not good," Diego averted his gaze and struggled with the words, and Juan sensed he was also battling his own choking cloud of remorse. "Don Bastion is dying." He ran a trembling hand through his dark hair. "There are two wounds. Doctor Avilla attempted to operate on the one to his abdomen, but there is simply too much damage to his organs." He swallowed hard. "The second bullet struck his chest, piercing a lung. There is no point in trying to remove it."

Juan's voice was but a whisper, "I am sorry, Don Diego."

"He may hang on for a few more hours. The doctor has stopped the bleeding and is administering something for the pain. We are doing our best to make him comfortable."

It was not easy to hear the prognosis articulated aloud, even though Juan had witnessed similar gunshot wounds before and expected this outcome. "I will send a lancer to San Luis Rey with word for his son." He should have done it immediately upon returning to the cuartel with the prisoners, but he barely managed to make it to his quarters before collapsing from exhaustion.

"That is not necessary, Capitán."

"Oh?"

"Two of Don Nacho's vaqueros set off before dawn," Diego explained. "We have friends along El Camino Real who will provide fresh horses. They will ride fast and hard. We are praying that Emilio will get here in time to say goodbye to his father."

"As will I," Juan added. He looked at the caballero. "You will keep me informed?"

"Sí," Diego nodded. "I will send updates to the cuartel."

"Gracias." He donned his hat and adjusted the chin cord. Loosening the reins from the hitching post, Juan paused and pulled an object from the saddlebag. "Please give this to your father." He handed a pocket watch to the younger de la Vega. Swinging onto Hero, he waved to the don, "Adiós."

The journey back to the pueblo went as sluggish as the trek to the Torres hacienda. Time stood still as guilt chewed at Juan's conscience. He replayed every detail in his head, wondering if he could have done something—anything—to prevent the tragedy. Finally arriving at the cuartel, an anxious Sergeant Garcia greeted Capitán Morales.

"How is Don Bastion?"

Lancers, seeing the commandante dismount, crowded around the two eager for the latest news.

"Not well, I am afraid. The doctor does not expect him to survive the day," Morales replied. Glaring in the direction of the occupied jail cells, he added, "Prepare the gallows."

Garcia nodded. "Prepare the gall…" he trailed off, eyes growing wide as saucers in comprehension. Stomping his feet, he puffed out his chest and saluted, "Sí, mi Capitán."

Morales led his mare to the stables amid the hushed whispers of the soldiers. Handing the reins to a private, he proceeded to his office. Along the way, he caught the onset of a heated dialogue between Garcia and Corporal Reyes. Morbid curiosity caused him to sneak a quick look at the bumbling pair.

"You heard the commandante, Sergeant," Reyes instructed, "Start building the gallows."

"What is this?" Garcia responded in astonishment, placing his hands firmly on his hips. "I am the sergeant and you are the corporal. You cannot give me orders."

"The commandante left me in charge while he was gone," Reyes argued.

"Well, he is not gone anymore," Garcia huffed.

Morales shook his head in disbelief. If he had not just witnessed the exchange, he would never have believed it. Deciding to let them sort it out on their own, he climbed the stairs and took solace in his quarters. Setting his hat on the table by the door, he went to hang his scabbard on the hook in the corner when a timid knock sounded.

"Enter."

The door creaked opened and Private Rodriguez stuck his head in.

"What is it?" Morales inquired. When the private fully stepped into the room dressed in a brown jacket and trousers, he added, "Why are you not in uniform?"

"You, uh, you gave me orders to keep watch outside your window last night," Rodriguez stammered, "but you did not tell me when to leave."

"You have been out there all this time?" Morales asked incredulously.

"Sí, Capitán," Rodriguez affirmed. "I am getting hungry and thirsty. Is it all right if I come in now?"

Juan perched on the edge of his desk and reached up to massage his forehead. The vein in his left temple began to throb. "Yes, go fetch something to eat and resume your regular duties."

"Gracias, Capitán," Rodriguez smiled. "Oh, I saw Zorro last night."

"You aren't the only one," Morales quipped.

"He was exiting your window."

"Exiting, eh? So you did not see him enter?"

Rodriguez cleared his throat, "Uh, I, um…"

Morales chuckled at the reaction, deducing his intrepid spy was probably sound asleep at the late—or rather early—hour. "Do not worry about it; you are dismissed."

When the soldier departed, he plopped his weary body down on the small couch flanking the wall. Tucking a pillow under his head, he swung one leg over the opposite armrest while keeping the other planted on the floor. He rested a crooked elbow over his face and savored the tranquility.

Until another, more forceful knock disturbed his peace.

"Enter."

He recognized the owner of the heavy footsteps without moving from his position lying on the couch.

"A thousand pardons, Capitán, but the corporal and I have a question regarding military protocol."

Sensing where this was leading, Morales pressed his lips together and stifled a laugh. Lowering his arm, he gazed at Garcia and Reyes with twinkling blue eyes.

"Who has seniority when the commanding officer is away?"

Juan could not help himself. The laugh escaped.

* * *

The blank sheet of parchment stared back at Capitán Morales as he struggled to compose an official report concerning the shooting of Don Bastion Maradona. Words failed to come to mind and the ink dried on the nib of the quill resting in his hand. He could not have prevented it.

So why did he feel differently?

_Because I set them free._

Juan tossed the quill down, rose from his chair and began pacing the room. He did his duty. As a servant of the crown, he did not have the luxury of choosing which laws to enforce. How could he detain the bandidos when there were no witnesses and no evidence? A small nagging voice whispered he did it to gain an advantage over Zorro. In his zest to outsmart the fox, he caused this tragedy…

No, he upheld the law. What was it he quoted to Moneta? 'Law is mind without reason.' Heraclitus once wrote, 'If it were not for injustice, men would not know justice.' Diego was right. They were not to blame—the only ones responsible were the bastards who did the shooting.

Juan sighed; here he was having a philosophical debate with himself.

Craving a breath of fresh air and realizing the sounds of sawing and hammering ceased despite the remaining daylight, he decided to take a short walk around the courtyard and check on the progress of the gallows. Opening the door, he nearly ran into Sergeant Garcia who had a forlorn look plastered on his chubby face.

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"A messenger from the Torres hacienda just delivered this note for you, Capitán," Garcia's voice was strained and he kept his eyes aimed at the ground, "Don Bastion has died."

Morales unfolded the piece of paper, leaned on the corner of his desk and motioned for the sergeant to enter. "It is from Diego de la Vega." He read the contents, set the letter aside and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Don Emilio arrived about twenty minutes after his father passed away. The funeral will take place tomorrow. Inform the soldiers that any man who wishes to attend the service and pay his respects may do so."

"Sí, Capitán." Garcia departed the office without his usual clomping of heels and salute.

_Don Bastion is dead_.

_It's my fault_.

Morales dug through the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the buried silver flask. Engraved with the initials E.S.M., he was fully aware to whom it belonged. From all the stories he heard about his predecessor, it surprised him no one had tossed the item out with the trash. Savoring a long sip of the aged brandy, he was thankful the flask survived the turbulent times. Too bad he could not modify the E to a J.

Replacing the cap, Morales strolled to the open doorway and studied the prisoners locked in the cells. Something did not quite add up about their modus operandi. Closing the door, he crossed to the far wall of his office and retrieved the murder weapons from a locked cabinet. The two elegant pistols had been well cared for; the ornate brass furniture shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight and the wood stock regularly oiled and polished.

They were a matched set of dueling pistols.

It was quite the contrast to the weapons confiscated during their first jail stay. The swords were pitiful at best. Numerous groves and scratches marred the blades, attesting to the fact they never encountered polishing compound or a whetstone. The firearms were no better. They were fortunate the pistols did not explode in their faces. The wood held cracks and gunpowder residue coated the barrels. It seemed they never owned a cleaning rod.

So how did they acquire such stunning pistols?

These were the property of a wealthy individual. However, if the bandidos robbed a hacendado, they would have stolen much more than flintlocks. Any theft guaranteed to bring vocal outcries from the victim and his friends. Don Alejandro, Don Nacho and Don Alfredo would ensure it.

Juan suspected a fourth party supplied the firearms. Ballesteros, Machado and Fidel were ill-mannered boars; no respected citizen would socialize with them or around them. Someone helped the trio; someone with more class and allure.

He searched through the files and pulled out the reports on the previous incidents involving Señores Rivera and Esperon. Two crimes and one shared element—both discussed business involving a large sum of money in the tavern. The third crime tied in, too. Señor Maradona showed off his prized necklace and earrings at the tavern.

Juan thought back to that night.

One particularly fetching woman got close enough to see the jewelry when she mingled with the crowd, beginning with Don Alberto's table where the Maradonas gathered. During his visit to the Esperon hacienda, Moneta even remarked how the beautiful new dancer distracted her father and Don Clemente during dinner.

It was Azeneth…

* * *

"It was Azeneth," Diego concluded. Following an early dinner, he explained his suspicions to his father and Bernardo as they sipped sherry in the library. "If we check the pueblos where she has previously performed, I am confident we will discover a series of similar attacks."

"I do not disagree with you, but how do we prove it?" Alejandro asked. "Capitán Morales did not have enough evidence to hold the bandidos the first time. There has been no mention of a woman being in league with them. If they don't report her, Morales will have no grounds to arrest her."

Bernardo waved a hand to grab their attention and pretended to hide an object in his jacket.

"The money stolen from Don Alfredo and Don Cornelio has been returned," Alejandro replied, understanding the mute's question. "Zorro found Doña Estela's jewelry on the murderers. Therefore, the señorita would not be in possession of any stolen items."

Bernardo began to frown, but then his expression brightened and his eyes filled with playful glints. He traced a 'Z' in the air with his finger.

"Sí, my friend," Diego said, "Zorro will ride tonight."

"I do not think that is wise, Diego," Alejandro sighed. "Azeneth is scheduled to perform in Los Angeles for one more week. It has been over thirty-five hours since you have slept. Zorro can ride tomorrow." He looked to his son's friend for backing. Bernardo nodded his agreement.

"I must go tonight."

"Why?" Alejandro challenged.

His son was battling a flurry of emotions resulting from the harrowing surgery and death of their friend. The older de la Vega recalled the first time he assisted in an operation while studying in Madrid. A fellow student broke a leg in a riding accident and the doctor had to reset the protruding bone. The screams still haunted him to this day.

Like his father, Diego was too stubborn to voice his misgivings. Alejandro eventually got drunk at a tavern only to find himself dragged back to his quarters by his future brother-in-law. Estevan never let him live it down. The stakes were far higher for Diego. He would much rather have him sulking in the safety of the hacienda than making a mistake as the fox.

"I owe it to Don Bastion," Diego whispered, gripping the armrests of the chair.

"Diego…"

"His death is a direct result of Zorro's mistake."

"Do not go down this path," Alejandro warned. "This is _not_ your fault."

"I have been arguing that point with myself since last night." A hollow laugh passed his lips. "I even told Don Sebastian something similar while defending the capitán." Diego leaned forward with elbows propped on knees and cupped his face in his hands.

He sat like that for a long time and Alejandro exchanged worried looks with Bernardo. Maybe he should not have pressed him so soon and with so little rest. "Are you all right, my son?"

Diego's fingers curled together and he lowered his hands. "I will be," he conceded. "Right now, I need to prove Azeneth is an accomplice; perhaps as much for my sake as Don Bastion's."

Alejandro could understand the sentiment, yet it did not diminish his growing trepidation. In his son's current state of mind, Sergeant Garcia stood a damn good chance of collecting the reward he greatly desired. He had to continue pushing. "Say Zorro proves Azeneth is guilty. What next? You cannot haul her to the cuartel and expect Morales to lock her up on the word of a masked outlaw."

"True, but Bernardo can arrange for Sergeant Garcia to deliver an anonymous message to our commandante explaining her role in the crimes," Diego grinned and sparks shone in his hazel eyes.

Alejandro turned to look at the mute. Bernardo shared the same mischievous grin. It was contagious; he felt the corners of his own lips twitching in amusement. He still did not feel good about the fox's planned escapade, but at least Diego's instincts remained sharp despite his lack of sleep and Bernardo would be with him. "Very well, my son," Alejandro relented. "Good luck."

"Gracias, Father," Diego replied. He turned to Bernardo. "Zorro shall pay the dancer a visit after her final performance this evening. Let us go to my room and make preparations."

They exchanged goodnights and Alejandro found himself alone in the library. He swirled the amontillado in the crystal goblet and took a slow sip of the amber liquid. Another long night lay ahead.

The situation called for a cup of hot coffee, but it would raise too many questions amongst the servants. With the exception of a short nap prior to dinner—well, it was more like nodding off in the sala—Alejandro had been awake longer than his son. Rising from the couch and perusing the volumes on the bookshelves, he opted for a rousing adventure story to keep his heavy eyelids open.

He was not about to go to bed until his son returned safely home.

* * *

Capitán Morales secured the dueling pistols in the cabinet. Heading to the door, he called for Sergeant Garcia who stood near the foundation of the gallows. When the plump sergeant neared, he instructed, "Bring Fidel to my office and have the soldiers make some construction noise."

Garcia crinkled his forehead. "Some construction noise? But I gave the men orders to finish up for the day since it will be getting dark soon."

"That is fine. You must have some scrap pieces of wood. Once Fidel is escorted here, simply have a couple of lancers cut the scraps and pound on them with hammers."

"Sí, Commandante," Garcia replied, looking unsure of the orders.

With the youngest of the bandidos brought to him, Morales ushered a hesitant sergeant from the entrance. "Trust me; I have the situation in hand," he whispered. Closing the door, he motioned for the prisoner to have a seat.

Morales regarded his detainee carefully. Fidel sat with his hands in his lap and eyes aimed at the floor. There was a slight trembling to his shoulders. As much as the capitán hated to admit it, he realized Zorro might be right—that this man deserved leniency. From all appearances, he did not possess the countenance of a hardened criminal like his compañeros.

As instructed, the sounds of sawing and hammering began filling the room. Morales smiled and settled on the edge of his desk. "Don Bastion Maradona will be laid to rest tomorrow. Right now, my men are building the gallows where you and your associates will be executed two days after the funeral."

Fidel shuddered.

"I have been reviewing the details of the case and am inclined to show you mercy. Señor Maradona was shot two times; two weapons were found," Morales explained, "and neither were in your possession. I don't think you wanted to kill him."

"Sí, sí, that is true, you must believe me," Fidel pleaded, lifting his head to meet the capitán's eyes. "Ballesteros and Machado, they are out of control. They _wanted_ to shoot the señor. They taunted him and his wife, even striking her. I would never strike a woman. My mother raised me better," his voice cracked, "When we robbed that first don, he handed over the money without a struggle, but they still beat him. I begged them to stop, but they kept hitting and kicking him." Fidel clasped his hands together, "You must believe me."

"It does not change the fact that you are an accessory to robbery and murder," Morales stated. "You must be punished. I cannot let you go free, but if you cooperate and provide me with information, I do have the authority to keep your neck out of the noose."

Mistrust was plainly written on Fidel's face. "I–I don't understand."

"Your sentence will be one year working in the mines."

Fidel grunted and turned away. "One year in the mines is a death sentence. You may as well hang me."

"Not necessarily," Morales said softly. "You are young and healthy. One year is survivable. Once you are released, you can live the rest of your life as you choose," he paused and remarked lightly, "preferably as an honest citizen." When his prisoner remained silent, he challenged, "Do you want to die?"

The rhythmic melody of saws cutting wood filled the air.

"I have heard of the troubles in Los Angeles and all the officials that rotate through this office. How can I be sure that you will keep your word—or that you will be here in one year to assure I am released?"

"You will just have to trust me," Morales replied. "Sergeant Garcia, my second-in-command, has been posted to this pueblo for most of his career. He is a good man and he has filled in as temporary commandante. I will inform him of your situation. Garcia will make certain to follow through on any orders I hand down in the event of my absence."

Loud pounding from hammers striking nails echoed in the room.

The bandit sighed. "What kind of information?"

"The three of you were not working alone. There is someone else. I want the name of this person."

Fidel's eyes widened and panic etched into his features. "They will kill me."

"The Spanish Crown is going to kill you in three days," Morales quipped.

"No, I will not help you."

"Your compañeros cannot harm you if they are locked up in jail."

Beads of perspiration formed on the quivering bandit's hairline. The capitán recognized the fear consuming Fidel, so he decided to play on those fears.

"I will let you in on a little secret," Morales folded his arms over his chest, "This is my first post as commandante. During my years in the army, I have witnessed several executions, some by way of hanging and others by firing squad. A firing squad is particularly messy. The blood and the bodies wrenching upon impact…" He trailed off as if remembering an exceptionally gruesome scene. "But hanging has disadvantages, too. If the rope is not the proper length or the knot is tied incorrectly, the neck doesn't break instantly." He snapped his fingers for effect. "Instead, a prisoner struggles and slowly strangles to death. It can take minutes or even hours."

The color drained from Fidel's face and he rubbed his throat.

"As this is the first hanging I will directly administer, the chances are greater of errors being made. I could commence the execution with Ballesteros and Machado and hopefully get it right by your turn…"

More pounding from outside accentuated his words.

"All right, all right," Fidel croaked, "I will tell you want you want to know, but please make them stop."

The capitán nodded. Rising from his perch, he stuck his head out the door and instructed the sergeant to halt construction. When quiet enveloped the office, he lit a lantern and retook his seat at the desk.

"The señora is our leader."

"The señora?" Morales repeated. How could he be wrong? He was positive…

"Sí, Azeneth the dancer," Fidel clarified.

"So, she is married," Morales smirked. He should have known better than to doubt his own instincts.

"Was," Fidel corrected, "Twice. She is a widow now."

Morales rested his palms on the edge of the desk as the enormity of the confession sank in. Azeneth called the shots? "How did a beautiful woman become leader of a gang of ruthless bandidos?"

"She is an evil one," Fidel answered. "Azeneth fights for the rebels in Mexico in support of Guadalupe Victoria. Her first husband was slaughtered during the army's recapturing of Boquilla de Piedras. Her second husband, also one of Victoria's confidants, was killed during the defeat at Palmillas. She survived and disappeared into the jungle while recruiting her own band of rebels to avenge their deaths."

"You do not sound very enthusiastic about her cause," Morales observed.

"I'm not," Fidel shrugged. "I don't care who governs Mexico. When my father died, he left me just enough money to purchase a small piece of land on the outskirts of Hermosillo. It was not much, but it made me happy. I built a little casa and hoped to get married and fill it with niños."

"What derailed your dream?"

"Two of my cousins lived nearby… they were rebel supporters."

"And the state of Sonora remains staunchly loyal to our crown," Morales construed.

"Sí," he nodded, "When Azeneth and the insurgents arrived, my cousins were eager to fight alongside her. They interrupted supplies intended for the officials and the military. I had nothing to do with it, but the troops, knowing my family's beliefs, harassed me… they rode their horses over my fields, destroying my crops. When the rebels staged an attack on the soldiers, killing four of them, my cousins convinced me to flee with them or face being executed for treason by association."

"How many of her followers made it to California?" Morales asked.

Fidel counted on his fingers. "Ten of us fled the city and made for the harbor where we escaped by ship. Two were shot on the way, including one of my cousins. That left eight of us, including Azeneth, Ballesteros, Machado and me. We disembarked in San Carlos. She got the idea to perform in taverns to learn who had money. We paired off and took turns robbing the hacendados."

"A fanciful story," the capitán scoffed. "If a series of attacks followed her the length of El Camino Real, word would spread. I have no alerts of such kind."

"It worked until a group of lancers on maneuvers interrupted one of the assaults in San Miguel," Fidel explained, a sharper edge taking hold of his voice, "killing my cousin and another."

Morales lowered his head. _They _were_ rebel supporters_. He never picked up on the past tense usage.

"The victims reported two bandits; two bandits were killed. We fled into the hills to avoid arousing suspicion. When Azeneth felt a proper amount of time passed, we started up again. Ballesteros, Machado and I rob the landowners while she keeps cozy in the tavern with her _musicians_." He nearly spat the last word.

"You never tried to leave?"

"Ha, Azeneth would hunt me down like an animal."

"One thing still bothers me," Morales narrowed his brow, "Why place your trust in me after what the soldiers in Mexico did to you? If I were in your shoes, I doubt I would be as forgiving."

"Because I have no other choice," he stated plainly, "and I do not want to die."

Affected by the young man's plight, Morales straightened his form and placed a reassuring hand on Fidel's shoulder. "I am a man of my word, Señor."

Fidel snorted, "I will find out soon enough, won't I?"

The capitán called for Sergeant Garcia to return the prisoner to the jail, arranging for him to have an isolated cell. One cell in the middle remained free. A perfect fit for Señora Azeneth.

During the questioning, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving dark skies in its place and a sultry shadow hanging over the pueblo. Morales smiled. He had a date with the devil's mistress tonight—right after her final performance concluded.

* * *

For the second time in a day, Tornado and his masked rider tore across the terrain toward the Pueblo de Los Angeles under a sea of glimmering stars. Nearing the outskirts, the fox slowed his mount's pace and kept in the silhouettes of buildings. The stallion stopped at the entrance to the tavern's stable.

"Go hide, Tornado," Zorro whispered and the animal obeyed.

An empty courtyard greeted him as he opened the gate. He searched the shadows for Bernardo, who rode in earlier to keep watch on the dancer and to gather information on the whereabouts of the patrols and Sergeant Garcia. The mute emerged from a vacant stall.

Zorro instinctively glanced around and pulled his friend closer to the inn so guests staying on the second floor would not observe them. "Has Azeneth finished her performances for the evening?"

Bernardo nodded affirmatively and pointed to the balcony above.

"She is in her room? Good." Zorro grinned. "What about Sergeant Garcia?"

The mute shrugged.

"You have not seen him at all? What about Corporal Reyes?"

Bernardo shrugged again. He held up four fingers, drew a hand diagonally across his chest, made the motions of propping a rifle on his shoulder, grabbed a set of imaginary reins and bounced.

"Four soldiers left on patrol… an hour ago…" Zorro translated when his friend held up an index finger.

He touched his hands to his ears and started pounding at the air with his fist.

"You heard hammering?"

Bernardo then moved the same fist forward and backward.

"And sawing? Ah, the soldiers must be preparing the gallows," Zorro surmised. "No wonder they are not at the tavern. Sergeant Garcia is undoubtedly overseeing the construction."

Bernardo's eyes widened and he pointed at the man cloaked in black.

"No, Zorro will not interfere." His thoughts flashed to the bleeding Don Bastion and he pushed them away. "Go back inside and enjoy yourself, my friend. After I have a little talk with Azeneth, we will reconvene here and decide on how to best get word to the capitán."

Bernardo smiled and slipped into the establishment by way of the rear door.

The fox climbed a wood support beam to the second story and swung over the balcony railing. He slowly crept along the length of the walkway and stopped at the corner suite. The drapes were drawn. Listening to make sure she was alone, he placed his hand on the doorknob.

"What do you think the capitán has planned?"

"How am I to know? The musicians don't play that bad."

Zorro jerked his hand away at the sound of the voices below. He peered at the courtyard and saw Privates Delgado and Ibarra heading for the rear entrance Bernardo used only moments ago. What were they doing out there?

_What do you think the capitán has planned?_

Delgado's words echoed in the fox's ears. He pressed himself into the shadows, awaiting the answer.

* * *

"Alto," Capitán Morales commanded outside the tavern. He turned to address the regiment of six lancers. "Ibarra, Delgado, enter the posada from the rear. If the musicians attempt to flee, detain them." He allowed adequate time for his men to round the building and signaled the remaining four. "Follow me." Morales strode up the steps and shoved the door open.

Silence blanketed the sala. Azeneth's men stopped strumming guitars.

Ignoring the questioning stares of the customers, Morales stalked toward the bandidos. The two men glanced nervously at one another before dropping their instruments and making for the curtains leading to the kitchen. They ran straight into Ibarra and Delgado. Privates Ortega and Sanchez rushed to help their fellow soldiers restrain the fugitives.

"You are under arrest, Señores, for conspiracy and murder," Morales announced once they were under control. "Lancers, hold these rebels here until my return. If they give you any trouble, shoot them."

Morales headed for the counter where the innkeeper stood agape. He noticed the de la Vega servant leaning on the bar a few feet away. For a fleeting second, Juan detected a flash of fear passing over the deaf mute's childlike features. He did not have time to dwell on it.

"Which room belongs to Señorita Azeneth?"

"Uh, the o–one at the end of the h–hallway," the innkeeper raised a shaky arm in the direction.

"Sergeant, Corporal, come with me." Morales took the stairs two steps at a time and advanced on the devil's quarters. He rapped on the door. It cracked open and a pretty visage with brown eyes crowned with a mane of raven hair peeked out.

"What may I do for you, Capitán?" she cooed.

Morales pushed his way into the room. A large trunk occupied the space on the floor at the foot of the bed and several smaller pieces of luggage sat piled on the mattress. The wardrobe was ajar and empty.

"So the rumors are true, Senorita," Morales affected a disappointed tone. "I was under the impression you would grace us with your presence for another week." She wore a burgundy silk nightgown that left little to the imagination. In her slippers, the bandita was no taller that Señorita Pavia, yet her voluptuous figure was infinitely superior.

Azeneth squirmed under the scrutiny. "I am sorry, but an important matter came up." She donned the matching dressing gown draped on the chair and tightened it around her waist.

The señora appeared to be alone, but he needed to be sure no surprises lay in wait. Morales strolled over to the drapes and slid them to the side. "I hope you don't mind, but it's rather stuffy in here." He opened the balcony door and breathed in the crisp, cool air.

"This is highly inappropriate, Capitán."

"Is it, Señora?" He walked to the bed. "If anything is improper, it's this handsome case you have." He opened the hinged lid of the polished oak box and smiled at the empty contours in the velvet lining. "I have a set of dueling pistols in my office that would be a perfect fit." He closed it. "Do these initials engraved on the top belong to one of your husbands or the man you stole it from?"

The lumbering footsteps and grunts of Sergeant Garcia and Corporal Reyes resonated from the hallway and Morales sighed in dismay. In his moment of distraction, she pulled a dagger from her sleeve and charged at him.

"Capitán!" the soldiers warned in unison.

The blade whooshed past Morales' arm as he barely managed to sidestep her attack. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted and squeezed until she screamed and dropped the weapon. He thrust her into the custody of his subordinates. Garcia and Reyes each held one of her arms.

Sneaking a curious glance at the balcony, Morales picked up the dagger and examined it. "Very nice, Señora." He threw it at the dresser and the tip stuck in the wood with a satisfying thump. "I can play with knives, too."

He seized her left wrist and peeled back the sleeves of her clothing to expose an empty leather sheath strapped to her forearm. He unfastened it, tossed it aside and checked her right forearm. "You disappoint me, Azeneth. Only one dagger?"

"Bastardo," she spat.

Morales went to the dresser and found a handkerchief in the top drawer. After wiping his face, he proceeded to gag her. "We cannot have you using that kind of language in the presence of my lancers."

When he stepped back after tying the knot, she attempted to knee him in the groin, but he caught her leg. The two lancers used their own legs to pin her against the wall. "You are a feisty one," Juan grinned. "What other tricks do you conceal? It is my duty to search you."

"But mi Capitán," Garcia exclaimed, his cheeks blushing, "She is a woman."

Morales laughed, "I can see that, Sergeant."

"We could get Carlotta or one of the other girls to help us," Garcia offered.

"The señora is a dangerous insurgent wanted for the murders of at least four of our king's soldiers in Mexico. We cannot risk the safety of any civilian by allowing that type of contact with the prisoner." Morales winked. "Do not worry, Sergeant, I am not shy."

Garcia and Reyes clamped their eyes shut.

Juan placed his hands on her shoulders and allowed them to drift down over the curves of her body, cupping her breasts. "You know, I once knew a woman in Seville who kept a vial of poison tucked in her cleava…"

Whimpers of embarrassment caused him to trail off mid-sentence. Beads of sweat formed on Garcia and Reyes' foreheads and they wore matching shades of crimson red on the faces.

"Perhaps that is a story for another day," he mused. His hands continued along her waist and to her hips, brushing the small of her back and the tops of her thighs. He gave Reyes instructions to release her leg. Starting at her ankle, he ran fingers and palms up the soft skin of her shin, calf, knee and thigh. Finding no weapons, he relinquished the limb to Reyes.

She stared at him with the evil eyes of a gypsy placing a curse.

Repeating the procedure on her other leg, he grinned when his fingers brushed leather. Morales unfastened the sheath and pulled the dagger and its case from under her skirt. "Aha, that is more like it," he quipped. "I am finished; you may both open your eyes now."

Garcia and Reyes breathed a sigh of relief in unison.

"Gracias," the sergeant said.

"Take her downstairs. I will join you in a moment." When the three were out of earshot, he turned to the open door leading to the balcony. "Did you enjoy the show, Señor Zorro?"

The masked figure cloaked in black emerged from the shadows. "It was a most interesting experience, Commandante. I might even say it was her finest performance yet." The fox whistled and thundering hoof beats grew closer.

Morales regarded his opponent carefully. "You were going to take action when she pulled the knife on me." It was as much a statement as a question.

The hoof beats drew silent. "If I told you yes, would you believe me?"

Morales chuckled. "Sí, I would."

Zorro flashed a white, toothy smile and bowed. "Buenas noches, Capitán." He soared over the railing and rode off into the night on his black stallion.

Juan retrieved the case for the dueling pistols. He would return to examine the rest of her belongings after securing the prisoners in their new accommodations. Exiting Azeneth's room, he paused as his eyes fell on the de la Vega servant standing at the bar below.

The fearful expression earlier…

He wandered to the balcony and gazed at the heavens.

"Good night, Diego."


	7. Chapter 7

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 7  
****"Duel at a Funeral"**

"Services for Señor Maradona will begin shortly, Commandante."

Capitán Morales looked from the letter he was writing to the soldier standing before his desk. "Very well, Sergeant. How many of the men will be attending the funeral?" He gently set the quill down.

"All of them want to pay their respects this morning," Garcia replied, "but Privates Hernandez and Sanchez chose to stay at the cuartel. The soldiers are adamant that the prisoners not escape." His eyes widened at his words and he fumbled to correct them. "Not that the commandante would let them escape."

A faint smile traced along Morales's lips. "No worries, Sergeant. I understood what you meant. I am proud they feel that way." The lancers under his command may not be the finest in the king's service, but they were all good and loyal men. "Is Señor Maradona to be buried at the Mission San Gabriel?" As of last night, the final arrangements were still being decided on.

"Sí," Garcia answered. "After the services in the church, there will be a gathering at the posada. Privates Ibarra and Delgado will relieve Hernandez and Sanchez so they may have the chance to pay their respects, too. Don Emilio and Doña Estela will transport the casket to the mission for burial later in the day accompanied by some close family friends."

Yes, his soldiers were all good men and when the situation called for it, they stepped up admirably. Even bumbling Garcia showed his ability to be a competent leader. Dressed in a clean and newly pressed uniform, his cheeks freshly shaved and the nicks from his previous encounter with a straight razor healing nicely, he clearly conveyed the full agenda of the funeral service. If not for his penchant for food and wine, and the oversized belly, he would make an excellent officer. That reminded Morales…

"Sergeant, be sure to remind the soldiers they are representing the army at this somber affair," he instructed. "I expect them to be on their best behavior—especially when partaking in refreshments."

For a fleeting second, an offended look flashed across the chubby face before Garcia adopted his most professional posture and voice. "Of course, Capitán. You will not be disappointed in us."

Morales stifled a chuckled. "You are dismissed, Sergeant. Report to my office once the gathering has concluded. We have several orders of business to discuss."

Garcia squared his shoulders, saluted and turned to leave. With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at his superior. "Are you sure you will not attend?"

The capitán settled against the chair. "Under the circumstances, it is for the best that I remain here."

Sergeant Garcia nodded in understanding and departed, closing the door in his wake. Morales leaned forward and returned his attention to the letter on the desk. With quill in hand, he completed the dispatch to Capitán Zambrano and reviewed the handwriting. Satisfied, he signed his name at the bottom, reached for the pounce pot and sprinkled the drying powder on the ink.

Rising from his seat, he glanced out the window and watched the soldiers exit the cuartel, leaving it scarcely guarded. He decided now was a good time to check in on his prisoners. Reaching for his sword, he paused, opting not to take a weapon. Azeneth was a sly one; Morales would not put it past the bandita to use her feminine wiles to lure him near the bars in order to seize it.

He checked in with Hernandez and Sanchez who guarded the gates like a pair of hawks, then proceeded to the jail. Fidel occupied the cell to the left; Ballesteros, Machado and the musicians shared cramped quarters to the right. The beautiful dancer, still clad in her burgundy nightclothes, stood like a queen front and center. "Buenos días, Señora."

Azeneth wrapped slender fingers over the round bars and rested her chin on the horizontal support. "Are you going to give me a dress to wear?" she demanded.

"You surprise me, Señora," Morales grinned. "For a woman who performs in such revealing clothes in front of dozens of men on a nightly basis, I would not deem you to be the modest type."

"Bastardo," she spat.

"Actually, my name is Capitán Morales. You may call me by my rank, my surname, commandante or even señor. As long as you insist upon calling me by that expletive, you will not get your dress."

"Bastardo," she spat again and plopped down on the cot.

"Are you not familiar with the old proverb 'you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar'? Most attribute it to an Italian named Giovanni Torriano. You would be wise to abide by it," he observed. "Do not forget, I do hold your fate in my hands."

Azeneth returned to her spot on the bars and smiled coyly at the officer. "We agree on something, _Capitán_. You are a fly. It will be my pleasure to swat you dead."

"Now, was it so difficult for you to show me a little bit of courtesy?"

Apparently, the rebel leader did not approve of his jovial reaction. Pacing the confined space, Azeneth let out a string of curses that would have made the color of Garcia and Reyes' cheeks match the deep red of her gown. Had Morales not been acquainted with some of the rather… dubious… women of Seville, her uninhibited use of the language might have shocked him, too.

Peering at the gates, he spotted Hernandez and Sanchez staring at the scene with big eyes and mouths agape. Her voice must have carried across the compound. Chuckling, he went to the storeroom and retrieved one of the more appropriate dresses from her confiscated luggage. "This should do," he said upon returning, drawing her suspicious gaze.

Fidel sat on the edge of his bed, head resting against the wall, but the men in the other cell were loitering by the front bars, just as Azeneth did moments ago. "Move to the rear of your cells," he ordered. They stayed put, defiant looks forming on their faces.

That did not deter the capitán. "Tell you compañeros to move to the rear, or you do not get your dress." One small flick of Azeneth's wrist and the bandidos obeyed without a single grumble. Morales stepped closer and slid the dark blue clothing between the bars.

"You do not expect me to change right here?" she scoffed, hands on her hips.

"If you prefer to wait until some of my lancers return, they can escort you to my office," Morales smirked, "and we can all watch. It is against regulations to leave you unsupervised."

She yanked the dress from his grasp and proceeded to slide it on over her nightclothes.

"It's been fun, Azeneth," he quipped. Bowing slightly to further ruffle her feathers, Morales turned on his heel and walked back toward his office. He only stopped when her voice rang out, the melodious lilt slicing through the silent courtyard.

"You do realize you are wrong, bastardo."

"And here I thought we were past all that," he retorted. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolled toward her. "What could I possibly be wrong about?"

Machiavellian sparks glittered in her brown eyes. "My fate does not rest in your hands."

"How do you figure that? I am the commandante of this pueblo; therefore, I am the law."

"The old dons, the hacendados, they represent the antiquated ways of thinking; the customs of their forefathers," she explained. "They behold women as fragile objects to be treated delicately as not to break them. They live by a code of honor and nothing is more sacred than Spanish womanhood. They will never allow you to hang me."

The corner of Morales' mouth curled upward and he folded his arms across his chest. Peering over his shoulder to look at the empty cuartel, he raised an eyebrow. "My ears must be poor. I do not hear a single word of protest."

"Just wait."

"You have been living in the hills and the jungle too long, Azeneth. Don Bastion Maradona was a devoted husband and father, a man who dearly looked forward to the birth of his first grandchild. He was one of the most respected men in the district." Morales forced the swirling cloud of guilt away once again and affected a cheerful smile. "The people of Los Angeles will take great satisfaction in your death. As will I. But I never mentioned hanging you."

Her brows knitted in confusion and he detected a hint of worry. "Then what do you plan to do with me?"

"You will find out in due time," he replied. "There is the gallows or the firing squad. My superiors in Santa Barbara or Monterey may want to interrogate you first. I could also send you to Mexico to answer for your crimes against the king there." Morales raised a hand and traced a thumb along the edges of his goatee. "You are an ardent support of the rebels."

She grinned and the devious sparks returned.

"Your mentor, Guadalupe Victoria, cowers in the jungle."

"He cowers from no one," she snapped. "The great Guadalupe Victoria plans for his next attack."

"The four instigators of the rebellion are all dead. Executed by firing squad for crimes of treason nearly ten years ago," he pondered aloud. "Miguel Hidalgo, José Mariano Jiménez, Ignacio Allende and Juan Aldama—they were all decapitated; their heads now hang from the corners of Alhóndiga de Granaditas in Guanajuarto City as a message to other insurgents." Now his eyes glittered. "Your head would be a pretty addition."

"You think you are clever, _Capitán_, that you can frighten me," she laughed, "I am not afraid to die for what I believe in. Are you?"

"I am a soldier in the service of His Majesty, the King of Spain," Morales vowed. "If I were afraid to die, I would not be wearing this uniform."

"Then you will be buried in it."

"I certainly hope so," Morales remarked. "The army would have a lot of nerve to strip me of my uniform and issue it to my replacement." He motioned to the medals pinned to his chest. "The undertaker had better ensure my commendations are buried with me—and arranged in the proper order."

"Your fancy words, quick wit and lavish education will not save you. All aristocrats think alike; believe they are superior to others and can sit high on their thrones doling out orders. When your time comes, I will take great pleasure in slitting your throat."

Morales ignored the threat. "I may be an aristocrat, but I am not a cold-blooded murderer, as you and your people are," he stated, his features growing dark. "You are young and naïve, Azeneth. Do you know why officials resolved to display the heads of your fellow insurgents at the Alhóndiga de Granaditas? Families—innocent men, women and children—took shelter in that warehouse with Spanish troops, seeking refuge from the violence. When Hidalgo and his men stormed the stronghold, they _slaughtered_ just about everyone inside. That is not noble. It is barbaric."

"And you noblemen will not take notice of atrocities until honorable blood is spilled," she countered. "Damn the peons and Indians, their blood means nothing. Isn't that correct, Capitán?"

"If you truly feel that way, I pity you," Morales said softer.

"I do not need your pity."

"It is the talk in San Diego how your forces have been hit hard and the movement is near collapse. More troops are on the way to Mexico as we speak. I departed Cádiz six months ago; confidence runs high throughout Spain that she will triumph. The rebellion will be quashed and this misguided fight for independence will end soon."

"Then the news has not yet reached this dusty outpost." Azeneth's expression lit up like fireworks and she burst out in laughter. "How delicious, absolutely delicious!"

"I'm glad the subject matter is amusing."

She wrapped her fingers around the bars. "Are you familiar with Colonel Agustín de Iturbide?"

"Of course," Morales answered. "He has done more to quell the uprising than anyone."

The grin of the devil's mistress took hold of her lips. "He is on our side now."

Capitán Morales did not want to believe it, but she stated it with such strong conviction, he instinctively trusted that she was not lying. In a way, the allegation did not quite surprise him the way he imagined. Even in Spain, he heard whispers of de Iturbide's penchant for executing insurgents and jailing female members of dissenters' families. There was one particular legend telling how the colonel executed three hundred rebels to celebrate Good Friday. Despite the officer's impressive military prowess, he was not a man Morales admired.

Azeneth continued flaunting the turnabout. "He is fighting side-by-side with Vincente Guerrrero, one of Señor Victoria's closest allies."

"Then he has made a grave mistake."

"You should consider switching your allegiances, Capitán."

"And I can start by releasing you, eh?" Morales reached out, grabbed her wrists and drew her forcefully against the bars, ignoring her stunned cry. "Let us make one thing very clear, shall we? I was born a Spaniard and I will die a Spaniard. If I do not perish in Spain, then I will perish in one of her colonies. I will protect her interests to my dying day."

"You say it with such confidence, but your eyes betray you," she whispered. "Your king is incarcerated, your country in turmoil. You are unsure where your loyalties lay."

Morales did not know what rattled him more—hearing his long buried misgivings voiced aloud or the fact that this stranger, a scheming rebel, could see past his carefully constructed walls so easily. He endeavored to keep his features steady and smirked. This was his game, not hers. Azeneth expected men to crumble before her; Morales resolved not to fall, not to play into her hands. "You cannot possibly be more wrong about me, Señora." He released his stronghold on her wrists.

"We shall see," she tantalized. "Nevertheless, you will not kill me."

"Is that a challenge?" he quipped, sensing his lack of outburst mystified her. "I can assure you, Azeneth, you will pay for your crimes, even if I must shoot you myself." When she failed to offer a witty response, he smiled and held her fierce stare. "Do my eyes betray my words now?"

"Bastardo!"

"How disappointing; I expected a snappier retort." Happy to have regained the advantage over the beautiful and feisty prisoner, Morales gave her another slight bow and returned to his quarters with a string of colorful curses emanating from the jail behind.

* * *

Amid the crowd of mourners assembled in the posada, Don Alejandro de la Vega sat at a small table tucked against the wall, carefully peering at his son while hoping not to arouse those fox-like instincts. Diego leaned on the table, his finger absently tracing the rim of his wine glass. The dark mood from the previous days vanished; taking its place was a disposition Alejandro could not quite decipher.

Zorro returned to the cave exhausted, yet oddly amused, acting more like his old self. Diego briefly explained how Capitán Morales shared the same suspicions regarding the dancer and confronted her. The fox and the commandante nearly collided in her room. In the end, the soldiers arrested her and the masked man rode safely into the night. Alejandro deduced there was more to the story, but he did not press the matter. There would be time for that later. Diego fell asleep before his head touched the pillow and remained dead to the world until his father woke him to prepare for the funeral.

Now his son sat before him with this unreadable state.

As guitar strums mingled with the soft conversations and stuffy atmosphere in the posada, Alejandro averted his gaze to observe the gathering. Just about everyone in Los Angeles turned out to pay respects for his dear friend. When mourners could no longer squeeze inside the establishment, they overflowed onto the rear patio.

Soldiers huddled at the bar near Bernardo, with Garcia trying to engage the mozo in one of his tall tales and Reyes shaking his head. Stuffed into the corner of the sala were two vaqueros from the Maradona rancho who managed to find enough space to remove the instruments from their protective cases and play a bittersweet melody. Widow Doña Estela occupied another corner with Nacho and Luisa Torres.

"Don Alejandro, Diego," Emilio greeted, making his way over to their table, "I have not had the opportunity to thank the both of you for all you have done for me and my mother."

"No thanks are necessary," Alejandro replied.

Don Gustavo, sitting nearby, offered his chair to the grieving son and escorted his fiancée, Elena, outside. Emilio nodded his appreciation and scooted closer to the de la Vegas. "Yes, it is, Don Alejandro. You and Diego are like family to us. It means a great deal that you were there when…" he trailed off, tears dotting his eyes. "It brings us great comfort that my father was tended to and surrounded by people who loved and cared about him."

Alejandro stole a glance at his son. Diego bowed his head and smiled sadly.

"We are thankful we could bring that comfort to your family," Diego offered, swallowing hard. "I will miss his stories of how we pilfered his crop of special melons."

"He was fond of our indiscretion," Emilio chuckled. "We only took a few, but with each telling, the number grew. He had everyone believing we ate every melon in the field!"

The three men shared in wistful laugher, reciting anecdotes of the many celebrations the two families partook in and the young boys' penchant for troublemaking. Diego was quick to mention a few of their misadventures. It was an aspect of his childhood he often downplayed, but now freely reminisced about. Seeing a side of his son buried for so long warmed the old don's heart.

When the stories ended, Emilio's expression grew serious. "Don Alejandro, I also cannot express how appreciative I am of you and Don Nacho for offering to look after my father's rancho while I return home to Catalina."

"Nonsense," Alejandro waved his hand. "It is the least we can do. Right now, your wife and little one are the most important. All we ask is that you send word whether the baby is a boy or a girl."

"That you have my word on," the proud papa-to-be beamed. "If you will excuse me, por favor, it is rather stifling in here. I will check on my mother and catch a breath of fresh air outside."

"Would you care for some company?" Diego inquired.

"Gracias, mi amigo," Emilio replied, "but I need a few minutes alone with my thoughts."

"Understood," Diego nodded, patting his friend on the shoulder.

* * *

"There certainly is a lot of desert between Los Angeles and Hermosillo," Capitán Morales muttered to himself while studying the large map fastened to the far wall. He needed the advice of someone familiar with the terrain. Were there traversable roads? Watering holes? A sharp knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He gave the order to enter and Ibarra stepped into the office.

"Private Delgado and I are here to relieve Privates Hernandez and Sanchez, sir."

"Very well," Morales replied, "Carry on."

Ibarra saluted, "Sí, Commandante."

As the highest-ranking government official in the district, Juan knew he had a responsibility to make an appearance at the tavern. The return of his lancers signified the time to do so was growing shorter. Turning his focus away from the journey ahead, he watched the lancers chatting at the gate from the window. From the animated reactions of the fresh sentries, he presumed they were discussing the fiery dancer. Morales chuckled. She certainly had an effect on men.

When Hernandez and Sanchez left to join their fellow soldiers, Juan grabbed his sword and hat. Azeneth was not exactly a suitable topic to discuss in the presence of a grieving public. He stopped to give orders on his way out.

"I will be gone for a short time. I do not expect any trouble with the prisoners, but do not hesitate to sound the alarm if you feel even the slightest threat. It is better to be safe than sorry. Understood?"

"Sí, Capitán," the privates replied in unison.

Morales nodded his approval. With his left hand steadying the scabbard hanging from his belt, he exited the cuartel and strode toward the tavern. Horses stood tethered to every hitching post. Carriages monopolized most of the plaza. Faint voices from the posada floated over the stillness, although not a single person dawdled out front. Reaching the well in the middle of the square, his pace slowed to a stop.

Juan hated to admit it, even to himself, but he did not want to go in. Any forthcoming confrontation did not faze him; he enjoyed riling tempers and exchanging witty quips. He dreaded facing the citizens he swore to protect—the same citizens he failed. Taking a deep breath, he stared long and hard at the building that was so close, yet loomed so far in the distance.

His resolution collapsing, he lowered his head. Another deep breath and he pivoted, deciding to pay his respects to Don Bastion by visiting the church instead. The body should still be there if the family kept to the schedule Garcia relayed.

Juan did not take more than three steps when he detected movement to his right. Emilio Maradona emerged from behind the carriages. When the don's eyes fell on the commandante, he scrambled for a specific coach—his coach—and withdrew a sheathed sword from the rear.

"You and I have something to settle, Capitán."

* * *

Enjoying a long sip of red wine, Diego watched two of the pueblo's most illustrious swordsmen who were seated a few tables away. Lalo Peralta stretched his neck to get a better look out the window. He tapped Audre Ruiz on the arm and pointed outside. The two men rose from their chairs and sprinted from the establishment.

Diego crooked his head. "Shall we see what that was all about?"

Alejandro did not get a chance to answer. The door smashed open, slamming into the wall behind it, and Ruiz burst into the sala. "Emilio is going to duel the capitán!"

Father and son exchanged worried looks.

A roar of agitated voices, scraping chairs and hurried footsteps reverberated throughout the sala as the crowd rushed to see the confrontation. Diego and Alejandro joined the mass departure and found a spot a few yards away from the swarm to observe the scene. Bernardo caught up to them and grabbed Diego's elbow. The mute glanced around to make sure they went unnoticed and traced a small 'Z' with his finger.

"No, Bernardo," Diego whispered, "There is no time."

Doña Estela's panicked pleas for her son pierced the eerie calm and tugged at his heart.

"We must do something," Alejandro argued and started marching forward.

Diego reached out and stopped him. "This is an affair of honor, Father. We cannot interfere."

"It does not matter," the older don refuted, keeping his voice low. "Affair of honor or not, if Emilio kills the capitán, he will be in trouble no one can get him out of. Morales may have merited an invitation to the Royal Cup, but do not forget Emilio studied under some of the finest fencers in Mexico City."

"Father," Diego began. It felt strange to be quarrelling with his father like this; under any other circumstance, their positions would be reversed. "I do not like it any more than you do, but–"

Alejandro cut him off, "But nothing, Diego. Estela just lost her husband; I will not allow her to lose her son. And what of Catalina? Are we to allow a woman with child to become widowed?"

"Morales is an honorable man. If he is as skilled as I suspect, I do not think it will come to that," Diego replied, praying his words were true.

A deafening silence swept over the mob that brimmed with cries and hushed murmurs just seconds ago. Emilio slid the rapier from the scabbard, the sound of fine steel scraping against metal reaching their ears, and tossed the protective case aside. Morales stood near the fountain, his left hand resting on the hilt of his still sheathed weapon.

Deep down, Diego fought the niggling feeling that screamed he selfishly wanted to see just how good Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales is with a blade. The harmonious clang of steel meeting steel shook him from his reverie and he watched with rapt eyes.

* * *

Juan sighed. "Don't do this, Emilio. It will not bring your father back."

"That is _Don_ Emilio to you," he retorted, "and do not tell me what to do."

The utterance of the directive sounded so similar to that idiot Don Sebastian that Juan could not help but smirk. He instantly regretted the inborn response when the young caballero misinterpreted it.

"You have the nerve to ridicule my father's death?"

"I am here to pay my respects."

"You lie," Emilio spat. "You are the reason he is dead."

Juan closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "I am sorry for your father's death, but my actions—my decisions—did not cause it. The men I released were only a small part of a larger band of criminals. Their leader is now in my custody. I assure you, Don Emilio, they will be held accountable to the fullest extent of the law."

Emilio's resolution wavered; his gaze dropped to the dirt and his shoulders hunched forward. Juan exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. He did not want to kill this boy. Boy? Where did that come from? He was only a few years older than the hacendado, yet under the circumstances he felt decades his elder.

Preparing to take a cautious step toward Emilio to peacefully put this matter to rest, he halted. From the corner of his vision, the capitán saw two men exiting the tavern. In seconds, a crowd erupted out the door, weaving between carriages, filling the side of the plaza. Damn it, he swore.

Emilio jerked his head up. Gone was the weakening determination; burning fury washed over his bearing, giving him renewed tenacity. "Are you going to defend yourself, Capitán, or are you a coward?"

"No, Emilio!" The pained cries of Estela shattered the hushed plaza. Onlookers moved aside to allow the anguished mother to reach her son. Racing down the steps of the inn, only the strong arms of Nacho and Luisa chasing behind restrained her from the dueling field. "Don't, mi hijo! I cannot bury you, too!" Her knees buckled and she kept pleading. "Think of Catalina and the baby!" If the Torres' had not been holding her up, she would be begging from the ground.

"Don Emilio," Juan said softly, "Listen to your mother. Emotions are running high today; you are upset and not thinking clearly. There is no dishonor in walking away."

"You are the reason my father is dead," Emilio stated again. "Now you will pay with your own blood." His mother turned away and buried her sobbing face in Nacho's chest with Luisa placing protective hands on the woman's arm and waist. Emilio drew his rapier and tossed the scabbard off the field.

Juan stood there, not moving his hand from the hilt. His opponent affected an excellent stance, baiting the capitán to make the next move. Against his better judgment, Juan unsheathed his sword and saluted.

* * *

Emilio advanced on his adversary. The attacks came fast and furious, the thin length of Toledo steel a blur to spectators' eyes. Morales effortlessly parried each aggression, though he did not engage in any counter attacks. Emilio kept coming at the capitán with raw rage; Morales remained on the defense.

Diego's eyes fixated on the action.

He knew exactly what technique the commandante utilized. Zorro employed it often. Morales was testing his opponent's skill, letting Emilio reveal all his tricks before striking.

Emilio Maradona was an excellent swordsman; the top-notch instruction he received only enhanced his natural abilities. Diego often wished he could participate in good-natured duels with his friend, but Zorro had no reason to cross blades with the law-abiding hacendado. As talented as Emilio was, the commandante's precise, disciplined movements revealed Morales was clearly better.

Swords continued to clash and the momentum shifted. Morales counter-parried an attack and the blades slid together meeting at the hilts. The two men pushed off. Emilio's next two lunges were blocked and the capitán went on the offense. As the weapons danced, Morales' steadfast expression melted, replaced with a wide grin.

The corner of Diego's lip twitched in amusement. How many times had he heard the citizens of the pueblo, particularly Sergeant Garcia, describing the fox's devilish grin when he struck? And here the new commandante shared the same trait.

There was also something oddly familiar about his technique, too, and not just because Diego competed with students from the University of Seville. It was as if he was watching an improved version of someone else. The way Morales stabilized his scabbard as he fought; his footwork; his perfect posture, even superior to the fox's…

In the space of a blink, the capitán's rapier snaked in catching Emilio's, twisting the don's wrist and sending the sword flying into the air. The crowd gasped in shock.

* * *

Juan took advantage of the rare opening. Deflecting Emilio's riposte, he executed a feint. His blade snuck in, disarming young Maradona in dramatic fashion. The grief-stricken son stumbled against the stone well, hazel eyes wide with confusion and fear, the tip of the capitán's sword pressed into the flesh of his neck.

"I will not kill the son of a grieving widow, nor will I kill the father of an unborn child," Juan lowered his weapon, "Even if he does not yield." Sheathing the sword, he locked gazes with the caballero. "Words cannot express how sorry I am for the death of your father, Don Emilio, but I can offer you no more than my condolences. If it were possible to go back and change the outcome, I would not hesitate to do so."

Emilio's rapid breathing slowed and the color gradually returned to his ashen face.

"I am the last person you want to accept advice from, but you need to let go of this anger. It will only consume and ultimately destroy you. Take your mother and return home to your wife. Savor every moment you have with your family."

Pulling a handkerchief from his jacket, Juan lifted the brim of his hat and blotted the beads of perspiration on his forehead. "With your permission, I will pay my respects to your father."

He detected a barely perceptible nod from the don and proceeded to the church without a single glance behind, leaving a stunned crowd of Angelenos to discuss the scene they just witnessed.

* * *

"It was very nice of you not to kill Don Emilio," Garcia offered.

Mourners gathered at the posada slowly dispersed as the afternoon wore on. Hues of pink and orange took up residence in the hazy sky, with darker, more ominous clouds lurking in the distance. Everyone wanted to get home in the event it started raining. Reluctantly, his soldiers returned to the cuartel.

Morales glanced sideways at his second-in-command and smiled. "Gracias, Sergeant."

He wanted to send a private to San Diego with the dispatch for Capitán Zambrano immediately, but if weather conditions took a turn for the worse, there would not be enough time for the lancer to reach the way station between Los Angeles and San Juan Capistrano. It would simply have to wait until morning. Placing the letter in the top desk drawer, Morales motioned for Garcia to join him by the map.

"Have you ever visited Mexico, Sergeant?"

"I have been to Ensenada, but that is about it."

"Are you at all familiar with this terrain?" He pointed to the area just north of the Gulf of California.

"No, Capitán, but I have heard stories," Garcia offered. "That is where the Algodones Dunes are. It is nothing but sand for miles and miles. To the south is Gran Desierto de Altar. There are more sand dunes, and what isn't sand is desolate desert."

"What about traveling along the coast line to the east of Baja California?"

"Then you will have to pass through Laguna Salada. It is usually a dry lakebed, but if they are getting rain as we have been this year, it might be full. Either way, the roads will not be good."

"That is what I was afraid of," Morales remarked.

"If I may inquire of the capitán," Garcia began, "why do you want to know about Mexico?"

"What I am about to tell you is not to leave my office," Morales instructed. "Repeat one word and Corporal Reyes will outrank you… and I won't be promoting him. Do I make myself clear?" When Garcia gulped and nodded, he continued. "I plan to transport Azeneth and her musicians to Hermosillo for trial and execution."

"But why?"

"She is a wanted rebel and responsible for the deaths of at least four of our King's Lancers there," Morales replied. "They will make an example out of her in a way that we cannot. Besides—and this is especially not to leave my office—she has a point; hanging a woman is a risky endeavor. I would rather not risk a backlash against the army in the district."

Garcia furrowed his brow. "It will take a long time to make that journey."

"A month at the very minimum, if all goes well," Morales explained. "We will have to traverse the peninsula, take a ship across the Baja to Guaymas and continue to Hermosillo. It is over one hundred miles out of our way. This is why I hoped to take horses and wagons along the inner coastline." He grinned. "Congratulations, Sergeant, you get to be temporary commandante again."

Garcia's expression brightened, but then his round features twisted in puzzlement. "People will see you are transporting a woman prisoner. As news spreads of who she is, won't the other rebels in Mexico try to free her?"

"That is exactly why I want to keep my plan quiet for as long as possible."

"It will be dangerous. They might try to kill you."

"I will be disappointed if they don't," Morales quipped. "Killing me is the only way they will free her and I will not go down without a fight. I do not aspire to die anytime soon, but if they happen to succeed, look at the bright side, Sergeant. You will get to keep your new status until my replacement is assigned."

Garcia looked at him in horror and Morales laughed.

"You are going to have to get used to my sense of humor, Sergeant."

* * *

Departing the Mission San Gabriel after the burial of Don Bastion, the Maradona and Torres families returned to their respective carriages and the de la Vega men mounted their horses. The group rode in silence toward their ranchos, Alejandro and Diego bidding the others a good evening when they turned off the road in the direction of their hacienda.

Alejandro took this opportunity to ask Diego more about the dancer.

"He knew I was out on the balcony, yet did not make any move to capture me," his son explained when he reached the end of the recounting. "The capitán even seemed appreciative of Zorro's presence."

"Maybe he is not so bad, after all," Alejandro reflected, grateful the commandante did not give chase when his son was near to collapsing due to lack of sleep, "and sees the benefit of a black shadow."

"He was furious during the fox's early morning visit," Diego recalled. "Perhaps I have misjudged him. Don Bastion's death weighs as heavily on Morales as it does on me."

Alejandro inhaled long and deep, holding the breath before exhaling slowly. "Speaking of Don Bastion, how are you holding up?" When his son failed to answer, he sighed. "Do not shut me out, mi hijo."

Diego looked at the older de la Vega and smiled. "I am not shutting you out, Father. It is simply that I am not sure how I am holding up. I felt so guilty when we discovered those bandidos Zorro caught were the same ones responsible for his death. But now that I know the dancer is a rebel leader, everything is murky… surrounded in a fog."

"Talking about it might help disperse the fog."

"You are certainly persistent."

"What are fathers for?" Alejandro chuckled.

"They do keep vigilant watch on their sons," Diego replied wryly.

"Ah, so the fox caught me today."

"Between you and Bernardo, it was hard to miss," Diego said, mischievous sparks shining in his eyes. "I don't… I don't feel as guilty. If Capitán Morales kept those men locked up, Azeneth could very easily have sent her musicians to do her biding or recruited new mercenaries."

"It's very likely," Alejandro agreed.

"The most difficult aspect to come to terms with is… is…" Diego faltered.

"Is what?" Alejandro prodded.

His son bowed his head slightly and then gazed off at the horizon. "Zorro has accomplished so much against what are often insurmountable odds. Maybe I have fallen under the spell of the legend."

"I do not follow you."

"For the first time, Zorro didn't ride to the rescue," Diego clarified. "He didn't save the day. He didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle. Even if those bandidos stayed behind bars, it may have been Don Bastion's fate to die. It's sobering to realize that there will be incidents where I cannot help."

So that was the reason behind the unreadable mood Alejandro failed to decipher earlier.

"The worst part is becoming aware of the fact that the day may come when Zorro will fail when it's most important." Diego's voice dipped to a hoarse whisper. "That he will be unable to save you or Bernardo, the two people who mean the most to him."

"Diego," Alejandro's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He should have known his son carried this burden on his shoulders. The shock of losing their close friend hit too close to home. No one ever imagined the proud father and expectant grandfather to be cut down during one of the happiest times of his life. Of course his child was troubled with the inevitable—his own father's mortality. "Diego, no one can state what the future will bring. Whatever happens, I know you will have tried your best. Bernardo, too. If the worst comes to pass, you must promise me, mi hijo, that you will not do something foolish."

Diego met his father's eyes.

"Promise me, mi hijo."

"I promise I will try not to do something foolish."

Alejandro shook his head. He supposed that was the best he was going to get from his stubborn offspring. A heavy silence settled over the two de la Vegas. Eager to get his son's thoughts on a different, more pleasant subject, he grinned. "What did you think of the capitán's ability with the blade?"

Diego flashed a white, toothy smile and the mischievous sparks gleamed once again.

* * *

After the sergeant exited the office, Juan plopped down on the couch. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed an orange from the bowl on the adjacent table. As he peeled the fruit and ate the segments, he reflected on the long and dangerous expedition ahead. Thoughts of Don Bastion still wove their way into his mind and he recalled how Garcia said something about Emilio and his mother setting off for San Luis Rey first thing in the morning.

Tossing the skin into the wastebasket, Juan rose to his feet and went to the safe tucked next to the cabinet. Kneeling to open the iron door, he pulled out the jewelry the late hacendado purchased for his wife.

Setting the emerald and gold objects on his desk, Juan fetched a rag, a glass of water and some polishing compound. He pulled the chair up and began meticulously cleaning the dirt and died blood splatters from the necklace and earrings, straining not to think about how the blood got there.

When the jewelry shimmered like new, he searched his quarters for a small box, finally stumbling across an old wooden container that previously held bottles of ink for shipping. Carefully wrapping the pieces in a handkerchief, Juan placed them in the box and secured the latch.

Overcast skies greeted the capitán when he stepped outside with the item in hand. A light breeze brushed his face and the scent of rain tinged the air, but no drops had fallen. Striding to the stable, he saddled Hero, stuffed the package into the saddlebag and rode out into the dark.

Horse and rider kept to a steady trot until they reached their destination. Juan dismounted, tethered the reins to the hitching post and retrieved the jewelry. Stopping at the gate, he took a long breath and entered. An empty patio greeted him. Walking slowly to the house, he knocked on the door. It creaked open and a servant met him with wide, nervous eyes.

"Is Señor Maradona at home?"

The trembling servant turned his eyes away from the officer and directed them at the sala. "Cap–Capitán M–Morales is here to… to see you, Patrón."

Emilio approached the door. He motioned for the servant to leave and the two men stood at the entryway in silence. "What do you want?" the don finally inquired with a mix of suspicion and weariness in his tone.

"I understand you are leaving our pueblo tomorrow," Juan replied. He presented the box. "It seems only proper that you have this before you go."

Emilio took it and opened the lid. His jaw quivered. "What makes you think we want these back?" he seethed. "To remind my mother how my father died?"

"That is not my intention," Juan sighed. Maybe this was a bad idea. "I only conversed with your father for a few minutes on two occasions. In those few minutes, it was obvious how much he loved your mother. That jewelry is a symbol of what they shared and he wanted her to have it."

The young caballero ran a finger along the gems.

"They belong to your mother. It's possible she will never want to lay sight on those emeralds again," Juan continued, "but if she does, she has the right to them."

"You may have a point," Emilio conceded, closing the lid. "About earlier…"

The capitán waved his hand to interrupt him. "It's over. No more needs to be said. It is getting late and I should be going. Hasta luego and buen viaje."

Emilio nodded and Juan turned to depart. About halfway across the patio, he heard the hacienda's door close behind, but had the strange feeling he was not alone in the courtyard. Nearing the gate, he instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword and spun around.

Doña Estela descended the steps clad in a robe.

His jerked his hand away as if the very touch of the steel burned his flesh.

"Capitán."

"Señora," Juan bowed.

She hugged her arms to her body. "Thank you for sparing my son's life."

"You don't have to–"

"Yes, I do," she cut him off, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. Juan suspected she did not want her son to know she was out here. "Emilio is all I have left. I could not bear to lose him." She dabbed the corners of her eyes with the sleeves of her robe. "I have heard what some of the dons say about you, Capitán, but I know you are a man of honor. This pueblo is fortunate to have you as commandante."

The praise emanating from this woman—a woman he failed—rendered Juan speechless. He swallowed hard and managed to utter a weak gracias. She bid him good night and climbed the stairs to her room.

He quickly disappeared behind the gate. Leaning against the cool stucco wall, he wondered what brought that about. With a heavy heart, he swung onto Hero as a light drizzle began falling from the clouds.


	8. Chapter 8

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 8  
****"Ambush"**

A small crowd assembled at dawn to witness the hangings of Ballesteros and Machado, but most citizens were eager to put this dark chapter far behind them. In the wake of the executions, life in the Pueblo de Los Angeles settled into its normal routine. Rancheros concentrated their energy on tending to their prized cattle, horses and vineyards. Shopkeepers and street vendors alike peddled goods and services in the plaza. For the soldiers, however, the normal routine now included the resurrection of morning drills.

"Up, down, up, down," Capitán Morales instructed. His men stood in formation, hands on hips, bending their knees on his commands. It started out well enough, with the lancers exercising in harmony, but soon some bodies were popping up while others dipped.

Morales pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alto!" Of course, that was the one order they had no trouble obeying in unison. They stopped and allowed their hands to drop to their sides. "We are not done yet," he said, only to be met with a chorus of groans. "Bend. Keep those backs straight." They complied, holding the position awaiting his next command. "Rise."

They went at it slow, bending and rising, up and down, until Morales decided it was time for the debacle to end. Sergeant Garcia managed a few repetitions, but now stood like an unyielding rock amid the sea of blue, red and gray cloth. For the little work he did, the portly frame gave the appearance of having done the most judging by the beads of sweat running down his face and the perspiration soaking his uniform.

"Alto," he ordered again, and again they obeyed the simple word in unison. "Separate into two groups. I will lead the first on a march through the plaza. Sergeant, you will lead the second upon our return."

"A march?" Garcia echoed.

"Sí, Sergeant, a march," Morales replied, feeling his patience wearing thin. At this rate, his subordinate would never lose that belly. "Tomorrow morning, we will begin assembling an obstacle course."

More groans followed the announcement. The capitán indicated the troops to his left. "Get your rifles and fall into line at the gate." They did as directed and he prepared to start the march when a solitary rider approached the cuartel, a fully tacked and riderless horse flanking his left. Garcia moved to stand next to his superior.

The stocky, well-dressed man climbed down and approached the garrison. "You are the commandante?"

"Sí, I am Capitán Morales. And you are?"

"I am Raúl Díaz, a representative from the Cuyama Mine."

Morales glanced from the older gentleman to the jail where Fidel remained locked in an isolated cell. "Sergeant, lead these soldiers in the march while I attend to business. I will conduct the second troop."

"Sí, Capitán," he saluted.

"Lancers, the rest of you are to resume your regular duties. Oh, Sergeant," Morales called out, "Need I remind you that it is to be a march through the pueblo—not a march to the tavern?"

Garcia's expression turned crestfallen. "Sí, I mean no, mi Capitán," he answered despondently.

"Señor Díaz, follow me, por favor," Morales stated. When they reached his office, the capitán motioned for his guest to take a seat while he claimed his chair behind the desk. "Do you have your papers?"

Díaz pulled a small bundle from his jacket and presented it to the officer. Morales unfolded the sheets and scanned over the text. "Everything appears to be in order," he announced, passing the bundle back.

"Did you expect otherwise?" the newcomer asked curiously.

"No," the commandante grinned, "but if you do not mind my saying, you do not look like a man here to collect prisoners. From my experience, that involves wagons with armed guards, not a single horse."

"Transporting convicts is not my typical function," Díaz chuckled. "Not that I lack experience," he clarified. "I did it in my younger days, but now my obligations run toward bureaucratic paperwork for the mine's owners. Our crews made the rounds in the southern districts last month. When we received word you had a lone prisoner, my employers instructed me to take custody of him after completing some official dealings. Your report did specify this Fidel does not pose a threat."

"He is more misguided than dangerous," Morales explained. "Fidel has given my soldiers no trouble."

"Good," Díaz replied, "then he and I should get along fine."

The two men sorted out the final details of the reluctant bandit's sentence and exited the office. The mine agent led the horses into the garrison's courtyard while Morales proceeded to the cells. "Well, Fidel, it is time for you to leave us." He retrieved the key and unlocked the door.

Azeneth slinked up to the bars. "Traitor! I will hunt you down and kill you slowly."

"I am beginning to think you are all bark and no bite," Morales quipped. He placed a reassuring hand on Fidel's trembling shoulder. "Ignore her," he advised, guiding him forward. "She cannot harm you."

"Cannot harm him?" she laughed. "I will slit your throat, bastardo, and then I will slit his."

When they were at the horses, Fidel climbed aboard the old mare and Díaz secured his hands to the saddle horn. The representative mounted his younger chestnut and took both sets of reins in hand. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Capitán."

"Remember, Señor," Morales cautioned, "He is to be released in six months."

Fidel's head whipped around, eyes wide in surprise upon learning his sentence was commuted in half. The commandante stepped closer to the bandit he had grown rather fond of and winked. "I kept my word. Do not make me regret it."

"N–No, C–Capitán," he managed to splutter and his eyes shone with appreciation, "Gracias."

"When you are free, build that casa you dreamed of and fill it with lots of niños."

Fidel nodded, a hint of a smile forming on his face. Díaz urged his horse into a walk and led the indentured worker away. When they disappeared around the corner of a building, Morales refocused his gaze to the jail. Now the time came to deal with the feisty dancer and her compañeros.

* * *

Entrusting his soldiers to the task of constructing a scalable wall and simple benches of varying heights to crawl under and jump over, Capitán Morales walked to the forge on the outskirts of the pueblo after a late breakfast. He knocked on the open door. "Buenas tardes, Señor, I received your message."

"Buenas tardes, come on in," Salvio gestured, looking up from his chore, "and take a look."

Stepping into the warmth of the smithy, the commandante's eyes fell on the wagon sitting in the middle of the room. He knelt and peered at the underside. At first glance a standard wooden cart, iron bars reinforced the perimeter with additional support beams running from side to side. He straightened and climbed onto the bed. Protruding through holes cut in the bottom wood slats were four metal rings welded to the iron frame, two on either side. Each ring housed a set of chains.

"Excelente," Morales exclaimed after finishing his examination of the reinforced vehicle. "You have done magnificent work, Salvio, and well ahead of schedule."

"Gracias, Capitán," the blacksmith replied. He reached into his apron. "Here is the key to the locks. I could not have completed your order so fast without the help of my son, Eugenio."

Morales took the item. "You must pass along my regards when he returns home."

"I will," Salvio beamed. "We attempted to minimize the use of iron without forfeiting strength to keep the weight from becoming burdensome. The wagon will remain responsive while keeping your prisoners secure. Short of the key, it will take another blacksmith or a high caliber round to free them."

"I only have three detainees," the commandante remarked, picking up a set of chains for emphasis.

Salvio shrugged. "It is as easy to put in four as it is three."

"It will come in handy if I pick up a troublemaker on the way," Morales joked.

"If I may, Capitán," the blacksmith briefly hesitated, "These are rather extreme measures to transport the señora and her men to Santa Barbara. Are you taking them as far as Monterey?"

"That is an official military matter I am unable to discuss," Morales answered, inwardly grinning. The pueblo was abuzz in gossip about the beautiful rebel, but his plans were still safely under wraps. Sergeant Garcia managed to keep his mouth shut and it only took a threat to bust him down to private. Well, either that or the dread of taking orders from Corporal Reyes from here on out kept him quiet.

"Shall I deliver the wagon to the cuartel?"

"No," Morales replied, "I will send a couple of my lancers for it." Bidding the blacksmith adiós, he leisurely made his way back to the garrison, relishing the serenity of the city before the arduous mission ahead, while wondering just how much progress his soldiers made on the obstacle course.

Rounding the corner onto a spacious street lined with merchants, he spied an older woman leaving one of the stores. She looked vaguely familiar, but Morales could not place her… until a younger lady followed her out. Inhaling sharply, Morales scanned the open area with wide eyes for somewhere to dodge from view, but it was too late.

"Capitán? Capitán Morales?"

The chipper tone of Sofía Pavia reverberated between the adobe buildings. A few horses tethered to nearby hitching posts neighed in protest. Everyone in earshot turned his or her head in search of the prickly sound's source. The collective gazes then shifted to the commandante. She caught him; he had no place to hide. Heaving a sigh, Morales wandered closer to the chipmunk and her aunt. "Señora, Señorita," he bowed, "What brings you two lovely ladies to the pueblo on this fine day?"

"Oh, I had an appointment with the seamstress," Sofía replied, pointing to the shop behind her. "Señora Aberquero is going to mend the hem on my dress. A clumsy caballero stepped on it during a dance at Elena's betrothal party and tore the fabric."

"I am sorry to hear that," Morales offered.

"Ramon Santil cannot dance as well as you," she complimented, batting her eyelashes.

"Gracias," Morales responded. He glanced at Sofía's aunt, yearning for the older woman's intervention to prevent her niece from crossing the bounds of decorum, but she did not utter a word. The capitán even detected a touch of what appeared to be anticipation in Beatriz's expression. His stomach sank in comprehension; she hoped to unload her relative to the first man that would have her!

"Capitán," Sofía began flirtatiously, pulling out her fan, "Uncle Ruperto is at the tavern with some of his friends. He will be there for some time… With all of the tumult in the pueblo recently, would you be kind enough to escort Aunt Beatriz and me home?"

To think his first impression of her was as a shy little thing!

"I have several pressing matters to tend to at the cuartel," Morales explained, deftly eluding the trap, "but if you are concerned for your safety, I will gladly send a lancer along with you."

Both women's countenances dropped and he struggled to keep a straight face. As he expected, Sofía politely declined the offer. They parted company and the capitán made a beeline for the cuartel.

* * *

"En garde."

Diego, with a wide smile and glittering eyes, advanced on his father. Alejandro, wearing a grin worthy of the fox himself, easily parried the simple attack and countered with a riposte. The blades conversed in back-and-forth play, the singing of the Toledo steel reverberating in the box canyon outside the secret cave. The younger de la Vega's rapier deflected a blow and snaked in, the tip coming to a stop a hair's breadth from the older don's chest.

Alejandro dropped his sword arm and chuckled. "I remember when I used to let you win."

"As do I," Diego commented, lowering his weapon, "and I always knew when you were letting me triumph, too. It pushed me to strive harder." Sword in hand, he walked over to the canteen resting on top of a boulder along with their jackets, took a drink of water and passed it to his father.

"Then I did my job as a parent," Alejandro winked, taking a sip and replacing the cork. "You will do the same when you have a son of your own," he paused, "and it would not surprise me if you also taught any potential daughters to fence as well."

Diego rolled his eyes and playfully threw his hands up in defeat. "Can we not go one day without a mention of your prospective grandchildren?"

"There is one way to put a permanent end to such discussions," Alejandro teased. He relished seeing his son back to his usual cheerful self after the traumatic events of the past week. The death of their friend and recognizing Zorro would not always be able to ride to the rescue took its toll, but coming to terms with the realization made Diego stronger. Alejandro was certain of it.

"One more round?" Diego asked, changing the subject and saluting with his rapier.

The silver-haired don shook his head; a third defeat awaited him, but he could not resist the competition. Besides, this happened to be a loss he didn't mind. Raising his weapon to return the salute, he went on the offensive. The blades danced, circling and clanging, until the senior de la Vega parried an attack. Perceiving an opening, he went for it, only Diego changed directions and Alejandro stared down at a rapier pointed at his chest—again. "Do not forget who taught you that move," he quipped.

"I haven't," Diego grinned. "In fact, I am surprised you fell for it. That is exactly how I bested you for the very first time," he raised a hand, "not counting all those occasions you let me win."

"I remember it well, mi hijo." Alejandro squeezed his son's shoulder. "My heart swelled with pride, although I had to restrain myself in fear of inflating your ego. I knew you were destined for great things, which is why I became so flummoxed when you returned home from Madrid a bookworm."

Diego tugged his earlobe. "It still amazes me I was able to fool you for even a short…" he trailed off when Bernardo materialized from behind the vines covering the cave's entrance.

The mute began a dizzying flurry of signs.

"Now, what is that all about?" Diego inquired.

Bernardo huffed and started from the beginning, going much slower. Alejandro quietly laughed as he slid his sword into its scabbard. Not as adept at reading the manservant's hand gestures as his son, he watched and listened as Diego deciphered the enthusiastic arm movements.

"A soldier… ah, not just any soldier, but Capitán Morales… visited the blacksmith… for a wagon?" Diego stared at the mute skeptically. "Are you sure that is right?"

Bernardo nodded.

"Why in Heaven's name would the capitán visit the blacksmith for a wagon?"

Placing his hands on his hips, Bernardo frowned.

"All right, my friend, I am sorry I interrupted your narrative. Please continue."

The mute bobbed his head in satisfaction, knelt down and pretended to examine the underside of an object. He then attempted to bend an imaginary rod, his features snarling at the impossible feat.

"The wagon is strengthened… with something unbendable… iron?" An affirmative nod followed Diego's inquiry and he leaned against one of the boulders. "Well, that explains the need for the blacksmith." He folded his palms over the hilt of his sword, the tip burrowing into the dirt. A moment later, he raised a hand, rubbed his chin and pondered aloud, "But why a reinforced wagon?"

Bernardo shrugged.

"What are you thinking?" Alejandro asked.

"Capitán Morales has remained tight lipped when it comes to his plans for Azeneth and her men," Diego replied. "It may be his standard protocol, but it is very strange how Sergeant Garcia is reacting."

Bernardo pressed his fingers over his mouth.

"Exactly," Diego concurred. "During these last few days when we have dined together in the tavern, the sergeant will start to make a slip of the tongue, then quickly clamp his mouth closed. Even Corporal Reyes looks at him as if he is going loco. If I were to make a wager, I would say Sergeant Garcia knows what Capitán Morales has up his sleeve—and more miraculously, the capitán found a way to keep him quiet."

"That would be a miracle," Alejandro joked.

"We know the capitán is not going to hang her; if so, he would have already done it," Diego surmised.

"It is wise he did not," Alejandro interjected. "Rebel or not, no matter what offenses the señora has committed, or how vile they are, executing a woman is always risky."

"It would stand to reason he is transporting her to another district for trial, possibly Santa Barbara or Monterey," Diego continued. "Bernardo and I have overheard some of the privates discussing Azeneth."

The mute made stabbing motions with his fist.

"Sí, she brags about the many soldiers she has murdered in Mexico and how she will slice the commandante's throat." Diego shifted position and rested an elbow on the boulder. "Taking into account her alleged crimes and the reinforced wagon," he began incredulously, "I think our capitán is going to transfer her to Mexico."

Alejandro observed his son with a sly grin.

"I don't know if he is stubborn, idealistic or just plain stupid."

"Why do you say that, Diego?"

"The gossip concerning the fiery dancer is already spreading like wildfire," Diego exclaimed. "Morales may as well paint a target on his back. He will have every insurgent and rebel sympathizer from here to his destination gunning for him." He narrowed his eyes at his father. "Why are you grinning like that?"

"The more I learn about Capitán Morales, the more similarities I find to my own wayward son."

Diego quirked an eyebrow. "Do you have another son I am not acquainted with?"

"No, just the one," Alejandro replied, struggling to keep his features neutral.

"I am not sure I like being described as wayward."

"If being an infamous outlaw who roams the night sporting a mask is not considered wayward, then I don't know what is," Alejandro commented, his shoulders rising and falling with delight.

Diego sighed, the corner of his mouth curling upward, and peered at Bernardo, who did not hide his amusement with the cheery father and son repartee fast enough. "Whose side are you on?" The mute clasped his hands behind his back and turned his gaze upward, pretending to not have heard the question.

"You must admit, Diego, if you were in the capitán's place, you would do the same."

"What have I ever done that is nearly as foolish as what our commandante is planning?"

"Must you ask?" Alejandro stated in disbelief. "To start with, there is that time you were twelve years old and the de la Callas family visited us. Do you remember?"

Diego tugged his earlobe again and began studying a spot on the ground.

Alejandro turned to Bernardo. "I caught Marcos and my son galloping their steeds at top speed, attempting to jump from one horse to another. At least that is what they told me at the time," he spun on his son, "You were probably trying to knock each other off the saddles. What in the hell were you thinking, Diego? The two of you were lucky you did not break your necks!"

"The practice came in handy for Zorro," the younger don said quietly in his defense.

"If I had not been grieving for your mother," he paused, the memory of his dear Isabella warming his heart and softening his tone, "I would have tanned your hide so hard you would not be able to sit for a week." Alejandro rested atop a flat rock. "And you try to act as if you have done nothing foolish. I still do not know half of what you did in Madrid—and I am not sure I want to know."

"I have never been so thankful that Bernardo cannot speak," Diego laughed, sharing a shrewd look with his friend. "Now, as long as Marcos does not pay us a visit, I am safe from any new lectures."

"To think your mother and I wanted a hacienda full of children. You give me too many sleepless nights as it is. If we had any more like you, I would be in an early grave," he admonished, adding almost as an afterthought, "That is the fault of the de la Cruz blood; de la Vegas have more common sense."

"If you say so, Father."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Mother would argue the opposite."

"Sí, I am sure she would," Alejandro chuckled. "Now, what are we going to do about Capitán Morales?"

"I don't know," Diego admitted. "Bernardo and I were contemplating a short vacation to Santa Barbara to lend him extra eyes and ears, just in case… but if he is going to Mexico, he will be on his own. I cannot be away from the rancho for that long." His expression darkened. "Zorro will not be able to help him."

* * *

As dusk settled on the pueblo and the scent of citrus blossoms lingered in the air, Capitán Morales stood on the steps outside his quarters observing his lancers during the shift change. "Sergeant," he stopped the lumbering figure walking by, "my office."

Garcia climbed the stairs and the capitán motioned to an empty chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat." Morales closed the door and perched on the edge of the desk. "First thing tomorrow morning, I will commence transporting the prisoners to Mexico for trial, taking four of our soldiers as guards with me."

"Only four?" Garcia repeated. The words barely finished rolling off his tongue when his eyes grew big and he clamped a hand over his mouth. Looking sheepish, he lowered the chubby digits. "A thousand pardons. I did not mean to question the capitán."

"Do not apologize, Sergeant," Morales chuckled, "Your query shows you are attentive. I would prefer to take more troops, but the garrison in Los Angeles is already understaffed as it is. Private Ortega's orders were to remain in San Diego after delivering the dispatch, so I will collect him along the way. As the presidio is home to a larger garrison, Capitán Zambrano should be able to spare additional men."

"Sí, Capitán."

"We have several orders of business to discuss before my departure." Morales stood, rounded the desk and pulled the chair out to sit. "To begin with, I expect to be gone four to six weeks. You should not encounter any trouble during my absence. Nothing deters bandidos quite like an execution."

Garcia's eyebrows jumped up. As they sank to their normal position, he forced a half-hearted smile.

"I am not joking this time, Sergeant," Morales observed. "If we had a hanging every month, this would be the most tranquil pueblo in all of California. Since the laws preclude us from hanging people at random to discourage crime, we must simply manage the best we can." Leaning back in the chair, he propped elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. "And in the unlikely event serious trouble does arise, I am certain el Zorro will assist you in taming it. Just ensure you do not give the evidence away."

"Sí, mi Capitán," Garcia replied and abruptly stiffened when he realized what he said. "I mean no, Capitán. Zorro is an outlaw. We do not rely on his help. We will try to capture him if we see him."

Morales grinned, "I am glad to hear that. Our second order of business concerns the many documents you gathered at my request." He pointed to the stacks of books, maps and papers neatly arranged on the floor against the far wall, some of the taller piles several feet high. Garcia's eyes followed the capitán's finger and he groaned. "Haul them to their respective storage areas. They are to be cleared from my office upon my return."

"Sí, Capitán."

"Our third order of business is the obstacle course."

Garcia's face filled with optimism and relief for his sore knees and back. "The soldiers and I will wait for your guidance before continuing with it. We do not want to make any mistakes."

"It does not work that way, Sergeant," Morales laughed. Pulling out several sheets of paper from the top desk drawer, he passed them to Garcia. "These are the sketches of the obstacles and construction diagrams. I expect all of the components to be finished and functional when I return. Study them. You have until morning to ask any questions."

Garcia thumbed through the pages, his features contorting in pain as he viewed each new hurdle.

"This brings me to the morning drills."

"Morning drills? The obstacles are not enough?" Garcia choked, looking up from the sketches, his face taking on a greenish hue similar to the one he wore when Morales first met him.

"No, they are not enough, especially since they will likely not be ready for a month. Do make some semblance of effort to carry out the drills, Sergeant," Morales implored, knowing full well the only exercise his lancers would get in his absence was the walk to the tavern.

"Sí, I will try, Capitán."

"I suppose that's the most I can ask for," he chuckled. "Wait here for a moment, Sergeant." Morales rose from his seat, headed to his bedroom and reappeared with a dark bottle. "I had the innkeeper send over a decanter of his finest brandy. Would you care to join me in a drink to a safe journey?"

"Of course, Capitán, of course," Garcia replied eagerly, tossing the papers in his grasp on the desk, all forlorn thoughts of the obstacle course forgotten.

"I figured as much," Morales quipped. He grabbed two glasses sitting next to the new water carafe and filled them with the golden-colored liquid. Handing one to Garcia, he raised the other in a toast. "Here's to hoping that I live long enough to resume my duties as Commandante of Los Angeles."

Garcia paused with the rim of the glass to his lips.

"It's a joke, Sergeant; at least I trust it is. Drink up."

Garcia needed no more incentive and swallowed the brandy. Morales swirled the liquid in his glass for a long minute and followed suit. Then he poured another round.

* * *

As morning dawned on the pueblo, the soldiers dragged Azeneth's musicians from the jail one-by-one, slapped a set of manacles on their wrists and secured their ankles to the chains affixed to the wagon. Two horses were hitched to the wagon and four more horses were prepared for the lancers riding as guards, each man armed with a knife, sword, pistol and rifle. Provisions, including food and ammunition, crammed their saddlebags. Canteens filled with water hung from the saddle horns.

Tucking a pistol into his holster, Capitán Morales selected a rifle from the garrison's armory and collected pouches of extra gunpowder and lead balls. He positioned them on the floorboard of the wagon next to his other supplies, ensuring they remained within easy reach of the driver's seat. A dagger already found a safe home in his right boot while dressing.

Sergeant Garcia lumbered over. "What about the señora, Capitán? She will not come out of her cell."

Morales peered in the direction of the jail. A small group of lancers, including Corporal Reyes, huddled around the open cell door exchanging uncertain shrugs. Azeneth kept to the shadows in the rear of the confined space and refused to step outside the bars, shouting taunts at her captors. A few of her more colorful curses drifted to their ears. He quirked an eyebrow. "Five soldiers cannot handle one woman?"

"That's just it, Capitán," Garcia replied. "The señora may be a rebel, but she is still a woman. We do not know how to… you know… she has… and what if we touch… it is complicated."

"Only because you make it complicated," Morales quipped. Shaking his head at the unwarranted display of chivalry by his men, he strode over to the jail with Garcia quick on his heels. "Get out of there right now, Azeneth."

Licking her lips, she pressed against the wall in a provocative pose that had the privates' eyes nearly bulging from their sockets and Reyes and Garcia blushing. "You will have to come in and get me, bastardo, and I will scratch your eyes out when you do."

"And here you've been bragging all along about slitting my throat."

She laughed and wriggled her cat-like claws. "I will do that after I scratch your eyes out."

"I will only say this once more. Get out here now."

She curled her finger, beckoning him forth. "Come and get me."

"Very well," he replied, matching her tantalizing grin. Morales unlatched the scabbard from his belt and handed it and the pistol to Garcia. He opted to leave the dagger in his boot; it remained out of sight and he did not want her to learn of its existence. The capitán paused just as he began to make a move forward. Looking up at the brim of his hat, he loosened the chin cord and tossed it to the sergeant. He did not need the spitfire trying to strangle him with it.

Azeneth launched herself at the officer as soon as he entered the cell. Morales grabbed her arms, barely avoiding her nails lashing at his face. She shrieked and kicked at him while trying to dig her teeth into his hands. He pushed her off; as she stumbled toward the rear wall, he grabbed her arm, yanked her forward and twisted it behind her back.

"Bastardo!" she cried as Morales grabbed her by the waist, ensnaring her other elbow, and hoisted her off her feet. She kicked, spat and swore as he half-lugged and half-carried her from behind the bars.

"Sergeant, get the manacles," he ordered.

Garcia took the chains from one of the privates and fumbled with the locks.

Morales struggled with the fiery bundle in his grasp. "Put them on her wrists."

"But how, Commandante?" Garcia asked, chasing after her free forearm.

"Damn it, Garcia," he swore through clenched teeth. "Seize her wrist and slap it on."

The sergeant glanced hesitantly at the rebel and finally did as ordered. Morales let go of the arm twisted behind her back, spun her around and hurriedly restrained the loose wrist in the remaining cuff. "Those make beautiful bracelets for you, Azeneth."

"When I get them around your neck, you will not find them so pretty," she sneered and started to run toward the gate. Morales caught her by the waist and hauled her to the wagon. The rebel stayed true to her cause and fought him every inch of the way, wildly kicking and attempting to trip her captor by entangling his leg with hers when not striving to rope his neck with the chain.

With her feet finally secured to the wagon, Morales jumped down, brushed his hands off and straightened his uniform. "To think I have at least another month of this." He claimed his items from Garcia. When the weapons and hat were in place, he circled around to the driver's seat and patted his second-in-command on the shoulder. "Well, Sergeant," he smiled, "the garrison is yours."

Garcia nodded. "Buen viaje, Capitán."

Morales climbed onto the bench and took the reins. "Lancers, mount up!" He gave the motion to go and the transport began the trek to Hermosillo.

* * *

Three days later, as the sun sank below the horizon and twilight descended on San Diego, the presidio's lancers assisted in transferring the prisoners to the jail. The musicians, whose wrists were secured in front, slid their hands through the cell bars for the cuffs to be unlocked. Azeneth's wrists were chained behind her back. As soon as her hands were free, she ripped the gag off her mouth and threw it down.

"Bastardo!"

"It's that type of language that earned you the gag in the first place," Morales joked.

She lunged at him and the door slammed shut in her face. Her slender arms shot out between the bars, scratching wildly at the capitán while he locked it. Morales dodged the sharp fingernails and tossed the keys to a presidio lancer. An eruption of vivid oaths flowed from her lips like lava spewing from a volcano and the soldiers in earshot all turned curious eyes to the scene. "You will pay for this, bastardo!"

"Keep it up, Azeneth, and you will wear that gag again tomorrow." Turning to leave, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder to observe the offending strip of fabric lying in the dirt. "You may want to pick it up off the ground. The filthier it is, the more unpleasant I imagine it to be."

"Bastardo!" She picked up the gag, wadded it up and flung it out the cell.

Walking away, Morales stroked his goatee and laughed. Raising his head, he spied Capitán Candelario Zambrano viewing the show from outside the door to his quarters. "She is a feisty one, isn't she?" the smaller officer remarked from atop the stairs.

"You haven't even begun to hear her proficiency of the language," Morales quipped.

Chuckling softly, Zambrano shook his head. "Come inside, my boy."

Morales followed the commandante into the office. In the process of closing the door, Candelario stopped midway, pulled it back a little and gazed out over the courtyard in the direction of the jail. He finally pushed it shut and turned to face his guest with distant eyes, knitted brows and incoherently muttering, "It can't be..."

The abrupt change in his peer's mood did not escape Morales' notice. Why did Azeneth suddenly rattle the accomplished career officer? Zambrano's hazy eyes at last focused on Morales and he motioned for his younger colleague to take a seat by the desk, but he himself did not budge from the knob.

Since Juan did not know the older officer very well, he decided to ease into the subject. Setting his pistol and hat on the corner of the desk, he lowered his tired body into the chair. "I did not see my Private Ortega out there."

"Ha," Zambrano huffed with more of his customary pompousness, "He is probably at the tavern. That is one undertaking the Los Angeles soldiers excel at—always finding the nearest tavern." He moved to stand beside the desk, fingertips brushing the polished wood surface.

Morales laughed, "Sí, I never have to worry about them getting lost. They are familiar with every inn, tavern, winery and way station between here and San Francisco. Make that from Ensenada to San Francisco," he corrected, recalling Sergeant Garcia's mention of visiting Mexico. "If refreshments are offered, they know it."

"No wonder they cannot catch the fox. Does this el Zorro supply them with wine?"

Juan considered the odd friendship between Garcia and de la Vega. "It would not surprise me."

"Speaking of refreshments, let us have a drink," Zambrano offered and added wryly, "As you are the Commandante of Los Angeles, I am certain you will not decline. It might embarrass your men and harm your garrison's outstanding reputation."

"Ah, we simply can't have that," Morales quipped.

The pudgy capitán chuckled as he walked to a cabinet in the corner, unlatched the hook and spread the double doors wide open. "I have Rioja, a little bit of brandy and some bourbon."

"Bourbon?" Morales repeated. "I don't believe I am familiar with it."

"It's a type of whiskey. Distilled from corn, if I recall correctly," Zambrano explained. "Sailors on the Americano trade ships use it to barter for supplies when they make harbor. This particular stock comes from a place called Kentucky."

"I am willing to give it a try."

Grinning, Zambrano removed the dark bottle and two glasses from the shelf and set them on the desk. He removed the cork and began pouring. "Do you want it straight up or with a splash of water?"

"I am only going to live once; make it straight up."

"Ha, you are a true Angeleno!"

Juan swirled the deep, rich, amber-colored liquid and took a sip. After the initial overwhelming burn, he tasted a strong, smooth oak flavor with a hint of sweetness. "Not bad."

"It's an acquired taste," Candelario commented, "and one that I have acquired!" A hearty laugh filled the room and he took another swig of the bourbon. "It's no match for our fine wines and brandies, but the Americanos try. I give them marks for effort."

Taking another sip, Juan looked up at his colleague, who remained standing. "You didn't ask me to your office simply for a drink. What is it about my prisoners that put you on edge earlier?"

"There's nothing like grabbing the bull by the horns," Zambrano muttered, rounding the corner of the desk and hovering between it and his chair.

"And I thought I eased into the subject matter quite nicely."

Candelario leaned forward on his knuckles. "Do you know who that woman is out there?"

"Sí," Juan replied. "Her name is Azeneth. In addition to being a very beautiful and talented dancer with a penchant for expletives, she is also an insurgent wanted for several cold-blooded killings, including the murders of our fellow soldiers. She is twice widowed; both husbands were, of course, rebels. The señora is said to be a part of Guadalupe Victoria's inner circle."

"Then it is her…"

Juan's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"When Private Ortega arrived with word of your plans, I did not fathom you captured _her_. I have heard this Azeneth referred to by many names," Candelario clarified. "She is a local legend in Mexico, inspiring others to join her cause. No one knows where she will strike next. A bit like your Zorro."

"My Zorro?" Juan reiterated, feigning indignation. "Do not blame him on me. Besides, the fox may be a pain in the rear, but he is no rebel supporter."

"You know what I mean," Candelario chastised. "Juan, my boy, be sensible. What you are doing is suicide. You cannot continue this journey without getting yourself killed. Let us execute her at dawn tomorrow by firing squad. Or, if you wish, give my lancers a day to construct the gallows and we will hang her the following morning."

"If I were going to kill her myself, I would have done it in Los Angeles."

Zambrano slammed a fist down on the desk. "Why this stubborn foolishness?"

Juan took a deep breath followed by a long, slow swig of bourbon. "According to Azeneth—and I have no reason to doubt her—Colonel Agustín de Iturbide has switched sides."

"Madre de Dios." Candelario's complexion paled as he slumped heavily into the chair. "He is one of our crown's staunchest defenders. From the very beginning, de Iturbide took a strong hand to insurgents. If he has turned traitor…"

"Then anyone can," Juan finished.

"Madre de Dios," he repeated. "How is it we have not been informed of this development yet?"

Juan shrugged. "Possibly, he is playing both sides for now. Even if it is not true, the rumor alone can do just as much damage as the actual defection if it spreads. That is precisely why I want to take Azeneth to Hermosillo. We need to make an example out of her more now than ever."

"You also risk creating a martyr."

"I have considered that danger," Juan conceded, pausing to sip his drink. "If she has truly pulled off multiple attacks of a grand scale as she claims, it's a given innocent people were caught in the crossfire. We locate their families and emphasize the loss of innocent lives. Her followers will have a difficult time countering such arguments without losing the faith of the common citizen."

"It may work," Candelario agreed. "I still do not like it, but I understand your reasoning."

"So, you will help me?"

"Sí," he nodded. "You are taking Private Ortega with you?" At Juan's affirmation, he continued. "That gives you five guards. I will send seven of my lancers to make you a dozen strong. We have some new soldiers fresh from Spain… they will be assigned to your detail. Sergeants Gonzalez and Dominguez can be trusted. You will have them at your disposal, too."

"Gracias. Are any of them acquainted with the topography?"

"Unfortunately, the only men under my command who are familiar with the Mexican terrain are the ones who were born and raised there. We cannot risk taking their loyalty for granted." The commandante reached into a bottom desk drawer, fished out a folded bundle and scooted the chair back. Pushing his bourbon to the side, he began spreading out the large piece of paper. "Come around to this side."

Juan circled the desk and started examining the map.

"Your safest bet is to keep to the main highway." Candelario traced his finger along the route. "There are many smaller roads and narrow trails weaving between the ranchos in the countryside, but there is no telling what kind of greeting the hacendados and their workers will extend you."

"You have traversed the Baja Peninsula?" Juan inquired.

"Not for a long time," Candelario replied. "When I was first stationed in the colonies, I was assigned to Santa Rosalia and Ensenada, but that was many years ago. Much has likely changed, but I recommend crossing the gulf at Santa Rosalia as opposed to Loreto."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Only that it will get you on the water sooner," Candelario remarked. "It might not be any safer as the rebels aim to capture port cities, but it lessens the opportunities for surprise attacks. Once you arrive at Guaymas, you will have to improvise. I am not familiar with that landscape."

"I am in a better position now than when I started," Juan divulged.

"One more thing, Juan…" Candelario hesitated. "For the most part, the main highway is wide open with limited areas for attackers to lay in wait for an ambush."

"But?"

"If they are enjoying a wet season the same as we are, the roads have a tendency to flood and become impassable." Rubbing his chin, he sighed. "The local rancheros often put out signs to alert travelers of detours…"

"And if they are loyal to the independence movement and learn we are coming with their hero, they may put the signs out in order to corral us right into their easy sights," Juan concluded.

"Exactly," Candelario nodded. "You will need to keep a sharp eye. Is the ground muddy? Are there any puddles from recent rains? Perhaps even send a man or two ahead to scout the detour."

"I knew it wasn't going to be easy," Juan quipped.

"Take the map with you." The older officer reached for his glass and raised it in a toast. "Here's to our king and to a successful mission. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo."

Juan quirked an eyebrow at the farewell—and a farewell it was. All aspects of Capitán Zambrano's bearing, from the regretful look in his eyes to the remorseful tone of his voice, conveyed to Juan that his host did not expect to ever see him again. He instinctively grinned and raised his own glass. "Let us also drink to not getting killed, eh?"

Zambrano shot him a curious gaze and shrugged. "Why not? It's as good a reason as any to drink to."

"And if I do meet my end, make certain I am buried with full honors."

The glasses clinked together and Juan emptied his in one gulp.

* * *

Moonlight shimmered off night blooming flowers and the scent of citrus blossoms tinged the air as Tornado galloped across the open desert, relishing the opportunity to run. Zorro also savored the wind brushing his face and whipping at his cape. It had been too long since the fox and his faithful steed roamed the night. Not even a daytime jaunt on one of his father's prize winning horses compared to the thrill of riding with the sleek and powerful Tornado.

As they neared the cuartel, the fox did a more thorough inspection of the grounds than usual, making certain there were no lancers dressed in civilian clothing lurking in the bushes. Satisfied, the stallion and rider neared the window to the commandante's office and Zorro climbed in.

During an afternoon outing to the pueblo, Diego and Bernardo watched in amusement as Sergeant Garcia ordered his privates to haul stacks of paperwork to the old building that served as the former alcalde's residence and office. An invitation to lunch put a quick stop to the chore, allowing the fox a chance to further investigate exactly what Capitán Morales had up his sleeve.

As Garcia lamented the mysterious disappearance of his corporal while they crossed the plaza, Reyes miraculously reappeared when they ascended the steps of the tavern—just in time to finagle his own invitation from the caballero to a meal and refreshments.

Zorro chuckled while recalling the conversation that followed. Pushing the thoughts aside, he concentrated on the task at hand. Once in the commandante's bedroom, he peered into the office to ensure a tight seal on the shutters and then proceeded to light a lantern.

He started his search for the briefcase that sent a shiver up his spine during his prior visit. Rummaging through the wardrobe, the bureau drawers, under the bed and in the trunk situated in the corner of the room, the fox came up empty. He could not find the slightest trace of the mysterious leather case.

Moving to the office, he set his sights on the remaining piles of papers stacked on the floor. A cursory glance revealed they were the same documents he encountered previously. The reports, logs, maps and deeds were all customary records for a commandante to review.

He moved toward the now tidy desk. The journal Morales had been writing and brainstorming in proved as elusive as the briefcase. The small bookcase held volumes on military strategy, military law and a few works of fiction that likely belonged to his predecessors, if the light layer of dust coating the tops were any indication.

Zorro sighed; the outing was not going as planned. There remained the distinct possibility the capitán locked the items in the safe. Unfortunately, the fox did not possess the skills of a safecracker. On the other hand, Morales may have simply taken them with on the excursion.

The black cloaked figure moved the burning lantern from the cabinet over to the desk. He settled into the chair and began exploring the contents of the drawers. Once again, everything seemed to be in order. Opening the top left drawer, an unsent letter captured his attention. It was addressed to the commandante in Monterey.

Sliding gloved fingers along unsealed folds, he flatted the sheet of parchment on the smooth writing surface. The hazel eyes beneath the mask widened while absorbing the contents. Capitán Morales was requesting all information the presidio had on the activities of the bandit El Zorro in Monterey—the date of the masker's first and last appearance, who he is known to have interacted with and if he had ever been seen in the presence of Diego de la Vega. Morales also inquired about the dates of travel for the young don.

Zorro silently swore. How could he have been so foolish to ride as the fox during his visit north? For nearly four months, the fox vanished from Los Angeles while Diego traveled to Monterey. And while the young don—who had already dodged enough suspicion of being the outlaw—saved Don Gregorio Verdugo, fought a corrupt lieutenant governor and sparred with Ricardo del Amo, the masked man just happened to plan a parallel visit where he became involved with the same people.

Coincidence could only be stretched so far…

He should have found a way to resolve those problems without involving his alter ego. Or at the very least do more to deter suspicion, such as stopping over in San Fernando or San Buenaventura and having Zorro strike in Los Angeles before Diego arrived home. But he did not and now he might pay the price for it. Hell, he was fortunate the connection went unnoticed for as long as it did.

Zorro stared at the letter in his grasp, not sure of what to do.

He could abscond with it in hopes the commandante would forget about it during his expedition. But when the capitán returned and focused on the fox yet again, he would undoubtedly question what happened to his inquiry. Only the signature was missing… perhaps he might think Garcia took the initiative to mail it. Even that was a long shot and only delayed the inevitable; the tenacious Morales would simply send a new request.

Zorro replaced the letter in the drawer. For once, he might just be outfoxed.

Extinguishing the lantern, the masked man departed the capitán's quarters. As he and Tornado savored the night air on the ride to the cave, he decided on a course of action. Since Monterey, the line between his two identities grew blurry. Diego de la Vega needed to bolster the contrasts between the man of letters and the roguish bandit. He laughed; his father despised those scented handkerchiefs.

* * *

Thick clouds obstructed shafts of early morning sunlight, allowing a heavy blanket of humidity to cling to the hazy air and making the already itchy uniforms even more restricting. One hour's ride out from the small fort in Rosarito, Mexico, the convoy slowed to a halt. Capitán Morales brushed the sleeve of his jacket over his sticky forehead and stared at the crooked sign pounded into the muddy ground. It cautioned of a flooded road up ahead. An arrow painted on the rough wood surface indicated a narrow trail to their left as an alternate route.

The capitán sighed. It did rain overnight and puddles of varying sizes drying in the few rays that snuck past the clouds littered the moist ground. He did not want to get off the main highway, but it appeared he had no choice in the matter. Considering the weather conditions, he trusted a trap did not wait for them. Still, Zambrano's warning haunted his thoughts.

Studying the faces of his men, he knew they were also apprehensive about the detour. Leaping down from the driver's seat, he inspected the wheels to ensure they were tight and the wagon could negotiate the rougher terrain. Behind him, Sergeant Gonzales, driving a second wagon loaded with food, barrels of water and other provisions, did the same.

Morales instructed the eleven men on horseback to dismount and look over their animals, being sure to check that the hooves were clean and the shoes firmly seated. Once they were finished, the capitán splashed some water on his face, climbed into the wagon and gave the order to move.

The procession had been traveling with three lancers stationed up front, two each to the sides of the wagons and four bringing up the rear. With the path too narrow for the soldiers to ride alongside the prisoners, the troops divided into two groups. The first unit guided their horses onto the rocky, uneven path. Morales went next, followed by Gonzales, and then the second unit of guards.

Overgrown bushes slapped the sides of the wagons and the soldiers found themselves ducking low hanging branches. Morales kept a sharp eye aimed on the dense tangle of plants, seeking any unusual movement. He occasionally peered over his shoulder at Azeneth, who remained eerily silent despite the absence of the gag, further adding to the ominous atmosphere.

When they finally turned back onto El Camino Real, Morales chuckled softly as the postures of his men relaxed, the tension of the past hour sweeping away like a rushing river. The detour cost them valuable time, but he expected to be in Ensenada early enough for the late performance at the tavern sans any more hurdles. According to the garrison in Rosarito, the Medina sisters were always worth stopping for.

As afternoon rolled around, the clouds broke apart and the humidity sizzled away in the blazing heat of the sun. Morales relished the drier atmosphere akin to his Seville. Not only did the weather improve, the highway expanded into a broad and spacious thoroughfare, with the nearest tall brush over twenty yards out, allowing for a fragile sense of security.

"How far do you think you will make it, Capitán?" Azeneth asked, shattering the silence.

For the first time, the beautiful insurgent articulated his rank without her usual trace of contempt. He almost missed hearing the affectionate nickname she called him. Morales glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "I think I will make it to my destination."

"Does that pass as the infamous Juan Morales wit?" she ridiculed.

"If you wish it to," he replied, keeping eyes on the road and scanning the hills.

"I will make a confession to you, Juan," she announced. "Despite your boorish manners as host, I have grown rather fond of you. In fact, I can almost see you as my equal."

The capitán quirked an eyebrow at the compliment; it astounded him even more than her sudden use of his first name. He reluctantly admitted to himself that he had also grown rather fond of her. Azeneth stood by her beliefs, not wavering from her cause for a second, even when faced with imminent death. Such trait was difficult enough to find in men and even rarer in women. Growing up in the upper echelons of society in Seville, he became accustomed to pretty young señoritas who cared for nothing more important than the color of their dresses and the latest gossip.

Perhaps it explained his nightly jaunts while at the university into the seedier areas of town. Debutantes sought marriage. Barmaids were not afraid to speak their minds, openly flirt and cause a scandal just for fun. Obviously, he could never bring one of them home to meet his parents, but Juan Morales desired a woman who could match his wits and keep him on his toes. If only Azeneth were not a rebel, he might have finally met his match.

"And to what do I owe this bit of flattery?" he inquired.

"As much as I wanted to slit your throat," she replied, "I am not so sure the task will please me now."

"My throat thanks you."

"That was a better touch of humor," she laughed. "We can end all of this now."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"It's quite simple, Juan. Stop this wagon and release me. To show my gratitude, I will guarantee your life. When your corrupt king's administration is defeated and we are free, I may even use my influence with Señor Victoria to have you appointed to a higher position within our new government."

Ah, he should have known. Morales smiled, keeping his eyes directly ahead. The straight path began to bend into the hills and take on a steeper grade. Overgrown weeds crept onto the road. A few yards away, plump cacti, filled with water from abundant rains, reigned supreme between gnarled trees and shrubs. Rocks and boulders dotted the landscape.

"And how would I explain such actions to my men?" he asked.

"You are the capitán, are you not?" she tantalized. "They are to follow _your_ orders."

"It's not that simple, Azeneth."

"Only because you do not want it to be simple," she retorted.

Morales struggled to resist laughing. The exchange sounded eerily familiar to the one he had with Sergeant Garcia the morning they departed Los Angeles. Although this time, he realized sardonically, he was in the role of Garcia.

"I have superiors to report to and I will never order my men to lie for me."

She snickered, "Virtuous and beyond reproach to the very end, eh, Juan?"

"Something along those lines," he responded.

"No one is that honorable," she observed. "We all have secrets to hide."

The road turned to the left at a mound of boulders. Morales did not like the blind spot. He kept close watch on the guards riding in front, while listening intently for uncharacteristic sounds and surveying the vegetation for any type of movement. "I shall decline your offer."

"Pity," she replied. "It's your death."

The confidence in Azeneth's voice rattled the capitán. What was she up to? Glancing over his shoulder at her again, the smallest of glints from the shrubs caught the corner of his vision. "Take cover!" he shouted, grabbing his firearms from the floorboard and launching over the side of the wagon. A loud boom echoed in the hills and the bullet splintered the wood where Morales' head was a split second earlier.

His lancers scrambled for cover as a volley of shots fired in their direction.

The team hitched to the prisoner wagon neighed in protest and danced anxiously. Fearing they would bolt, Morales inched toward the horses and spoke in a soothing tone, "Whoa, whoa, boys, easy there." When they settled down, he crawled back to the safety of the wagon and fired a shot from his pistol.

Azeneth laughed like the devil. "I gave you a chance."

Two rebels, pistols in hand, clambered forward from the shrubs. Morales eyed the boulders behind him where his soldiers sought protection, searching for signs the insurgents were closing in on both sides. It looked clear. He debated on whether to stand his ground at the wagon or join the others. With Azeneth in the line of fire, the guerrillas' options were limited, but a well-aimed shot could hit him in the knees.

Just then, a bullet lodged in the dirt beneath the wagon less than a foot from the capitán.

Taking a deep breath, Morales ran and jumped over a boulder, a bullet whizzing past his ear. He landed hard on the ground. Rifle in his grip, he scuttled to his knees and fired a shot, striking one of the rebels.

Morales looked at the young private crouched next to him raising a shaky rifle. He grabbed it from the tenderfoot's hands and thrust his spent weapons and bags of ammunition at the boy. "Reload these."

An insurgent ran to the driver's seat of the reinforced wagon. Sneaking around the side of the boulder, Morales shot him before he took the reins. He then ducked back behind it for cover as a barrage of gunfire hailed down on him.

Handing the firearms back-and-forth, the capitán continued firing off shots while the private reloaded. Morales spied two more rebels nearing the wagon and winged one in the arm. They reached their destination, but from his position, he could not get a clear shot at the bed without risking his head getting blown off.

Additional rebels descended on the supply wagon with torches and quickly released the team of horses. Soldiers lobbed gunfire in their direction, but in minutes, the wagon went up in flames. Explosions fractured the air as the gunpowder cache ignited.

A louder boom reverberated from the prisoner wagon and Morales knew they busted Azeneth's ankle chains. Swearing under his breath, he waited until he got a good visual on her. With one supporter on each arm, she made a beeline for the shrubs.

"Oh, no you don't, Señora," Morales whispered, lining up the shot. His finger froze on the trigger and a breath caught in his throat. He could not do it. He could not bring himself to kill Azeneth.

A bullet splintered a tree branch a foot above his head. Military training overrode conflicting emotions. The capitán involuntarily squeezed the trigger and the beautiful rebel collapsed to the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

Her two accomplices halted in their tracks. Looking from the unmoving form of their leader to each other, they started to pick her body up and drag it away. Morales snatched a rifle from the private and killed the rebel to the left. An instant later, the man to the right fell courtesy of one of his soldier's good aim.

Frantic shouts rang out from the vegetation. The gunshots stopped. Moments later, horses and their riders fled the scene. Morales waited a few more minutes before rising from behind the boulder. Satisfied no insurgents lingered behind, he slowly walked toward the reinforced wagon.

The musicians lay dead, still secured in the chains. From the angle of their bodies, he deduced Azeneth's supporters shot them. She could not risk any betrayals. Fidel already cost her enough.

The soldiers emerged from their cover, a few racing to put out the flames consuming the supply wagon. It was then Morales spotted a San Diego lancer lying dead in the dirt, blood soaking into his jacket. He realized he did not even know the private's name.

"Forget the fire. Report now," he called out. "Are any of you wounded?"

Private Ortega came forward grasping his upper arm. "It's not bad, Capitán."

Another private, leaning heavily on his friend, hobbled forward. "They got my leg."

The other nine soldiers survived with nothing more than a few cuts and scrapes. Closing his eyes, the capitán pushed the hat off his head and ran unsteady fingers through his hair. Feeling their expectant gazes on him, his lids fluttered open. The soldiers huddled around their injured brethren.

Morales indicated a couple of privates nearest him. "Remove your jackets and press them to the wounds of the injured. Sergeant Gonzales, you and another lancer are to get those rebels out of the wagon." He tossed Gonzalez the key to the manacles. "Sergeant Dominguez, you and the rest round up the horses."

A voice sounded from the group. "What about the fire?"

"Forget it," Morales ordered. "We need to get out of here before the insurgents regroup."

"What do we do with the bodies?" Gonzales asked, pointing to the deceased prisoners.

"Toss them aside for the buzzards," Morales retorted, ignoring the sergeant's shocked expression. "It's more than they deserve. The rebels can bury their own if they want. When you are done, see to it our injured and dead are loaded onto the wagon."

Gonzales nodded and motioned for another lancer to help him. When they finished, they gently put the body of the dead lancer on the wagon. Morales went over to one of the horses and unfastened the cinch. He placed the saddle to the side of the driver's seat and used the blanket to cover the form of his fallen soldier.

Jumping down, Juan paused at the sight of Azeneth's prone body. Hers was just one of the many lifeless rebels littering the dirt. The ramifications of his actions finally sank in and he swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Was this battle for independence really worth so many lives? Did his objective to see justice carried out in Mexico merit the bloodshed?

Pained grunts drew his attention from the carnage. The two injured troops were assisted onto the bed while two more men kept pressure applied to the wounds. With enough horses rounded up for the remaining seven guards, Morales tethered the saddle-less horse to the rear of the vehicle, climbed up front, took the reins and steered them towards Rosarito.

All the while, his mind speculated on how Azeneth gained firsthand knowledge of the ambush. She purposely engaged him in conversation to distract him. Whoever tipped her off had access to the jail cells. Yet another traitor lurked in the midst of the King's Lancers.

"And I will never know the name of the man who betrayed me," Morales whispered to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 9  
"A Tale of Two Señoritas"**

Dozens of merchant stalls constructed of wood and straw crammed the plaza, hindering the weary soldiers on their return to the Pueblo de Los Angeles. Carefully maneuvering his horse and troops through the busy streets of market day, Capitán Morales at last reached the cuartel. Corporal Reyes stood guard at the gate, the stripes missing from the arms of his uniform jacket.

Morales waved his unit to continue onward to the stable. Dismounting, he moved closer to Reyes when the portly figure of Sergeant Garcia cut across the crowded plaza, the lumbering footsteps and heavy panting rising above the voices of shoppers.

"You are home early, mi Capitán," Garcia called out, clambering to a stop and saluting. "We did not expect you for at least two more weeks." His cheeks flushed and his eyes kept darting to Reyes.

The commandante raised an eyebrow. Garcia's words were too rushed and his demeanor too anxious. He looked like a child whose mother caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. "We encountered an ambush outside Rosarito. There was no need to continue on." He shifted his gaze to the sleepy sentry. "Corporal Reyes."

The lancer stared straight ahead and did not bat an eyelash.

"Corporal Reyes," Morales reiterated.

Again, the lancer gave no indication of hearing his name spoken.

"Sergeant, has he gone deaf?"

"No, mi Commandante, it's just that… just that…" Garcia fumbled.

Morales raised a hand to silence the sergeant. It had been a long and tiring excursion; he was in no mood for their antics at the moment. He glared at the sentry and tried a different technique. "Donato Reyes," he commanded.

"Sí, Capitán?" Reyes responded in a slow drawl as if he did not have a care in the world.

"Do you want to be written up for insubordination?"

"No, mi Capitán," Reyes replied.

"Then why did you not respond when I addressed you?"

"You called me corporal," Reyes said simply, "and I am not a corporal anymore."

"I can see that," Morales observed. "What happened to your stripes? Has the garrison gone to such hell in my absence that you cannot even manage the simple task of doing laundry? I should write you up for being out of uniform."

"But I am not out of uniform, Capitán," Reyes insisted. "The sergeant made me a private."

"It was only because–" Garcia began.

"Enough, Sergeant," Morales commanded, cutting him off. "Private Reyes, effective immediately, you are reinstated to the rank of corporal. Now change into a proper uniform."

"Gracias, Capitán." Reyes smiled the biggest smile Juan had ever seen on the droopy countenance and then sprinted in the direction of the barracks in the fastest pace Juan had ever witnessed him employ.

"As for you, Sergeant," Morales started, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I do not know what happened in this garrison while I was gone, and right now, I really do not care. But in the future, do restrain yourself from demoting and promoting my lancers."

Garcia bowed his head. "Sí, mi Capitán."

Grasping the reins of his mount, Juan led the horse over to the stable where a small group of soldiers clustered around the men who made the journey to Mexico. Their enthusiastic tones carried to his ears.

"You should have been there!"

"Rebels were everywhere!"

"The capitán shot her!"

The animated exchange ceased when he neared. "Private, what are you doing?" he asked incredulously upon seeing Ortega, his right arm still in a sling, attempting to tend to his own animal. Morales turned to the fresh soldiers who had looks of awe etched into their faces. "Rodriguez, assist him to his quarters. Sanchez, take care of his horse. Herrera, fetch the doctor. The rest of you get back to your posts."

"But I am fine, Capitán," Ortega protested, "I do not even need this sling."

"Doctor Avilla will determine that," Morales replied. "I want that wound freshly dressed and examined."

With his orders carried out, Juan concentrated on the dusty gray stallion. He unfastened the cinch, hoisted the saddle off and placed it on the storage rack. Folding the blanket, he placed it on the shelf next to the saddle. After removing the bridle, he picked up a brush and studied his fatigued lancers.

"When you are done here, Privates, you are relieved of your duties for the rest of the day," Morales announced to the remaining four soldiers who accompanied him. "Go get some sleep or grab a bite to eat in the tavern. Put in on my tab." A chorus of thanks sounded and they quickly completed their tasks and departed the cuartel.

"That does not apply to you, Sergeant," Morales noted when Garcia ambled over to the stable.

"Sí, I know." The usually boisterous man did not say anything for a few minutes. When Morales finished brushing the gray's coat, Garcia finally gathered the courage to speak, if hesitantly. "Capitán, what happened in the ambush?"

Morales leaned forward with elbows resting on the top of the stall. "We were on the outskirts of Rosarito when the rebels launched an attacked. Private Ortega was shot. A lancer from San Diego was also wounded," he inhaled deeply, "and another was killed."

"What of Señora Azeneth?"

"She and her musician friends were killed, along with several other insurgents," Morales replied, not elaborating on the details. The privates already demonstrated their talent at reciting the story of the commandante's 'heroics' with great enthusiasm, even though Juan felt anything but heroic.

"Oh."

"Is that all you can say, Sergeant?" Morales remarked, the bitter sarcasm hanging in the air. "During my tenure as commandante, four of our King's Lancers have required medical attention while another was killed. A leading citizen was murdered and my sergeant takes it upon himself to demote my corporal. I have been slapped by a pretty señorita, insulted by a bunch of haughty dons and challenged to a duel. It is not exactly a record I am proud of." He flung the saddlebag over his shoulder, pushed past Garcia and strode to his quarters.

"We are proud of you, Capitán."

The simple words of praise brought Juan to a halt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his bad mood. He turned, his features softened by a smile. "Gracias, Sergeant. I will wash up and head over to the tavern for a late lunch if you need me. Carry on."

Garcia's defeated puppy dog expression brightened and Morales stifled a genuine laugh.

Twenty minutes later, a revitalized capitán weaved his way through the throngs of people shopping and browsing the many items for sale. Gustavo Travieso and Elena Torres, strolling from stall to stall with arms entwined, bumped into him and paused for a quick chat. A few other citizens stopped him to engage in breezy conversations, occasionally commenting on his early return, but most were too enthralled by the many trinkets to pay too much attention to the commandante.

He was forever grateful for that.

"Oh, Capitán!"

Juan neared the large stone well at the center of the plaza when the sharp, high-pitched voice sliced across the clamor and made him cringe. His face twisted in agony. Struggling to muster up a smile, he turned.

Señorita Sofía Pavia waved her hand and shouted his name once more, as if he could possibly have missed the shrill tone previously. She dragged her escort, Diego de la Vega, closer to the well. "Oh, Capitán, it is an unexpected pleasure to see you again. I heard you were away transporting prisoners."

"I have obviously returned," he replied. "It's good to see you, Señorita, Don Diego."

"Oh, please call me Sofia," she insisted.

It took every ounce of effort in his body not to visibly wince with every piercing 'oh' that escaped her lips. "Very well, Sofía. Are you enjoying market day?"

"Oh, sí," she gleamed. "There are so many pretty trinkets. Diego bought me a lovely shawl." She took a package from the don and opened the lid, revealing a vibrant rose-colored scarf with delicate embroidery.

"It is very nice," the officer complimented.

"Gracias. Are you shopping, too, Juan?" she asked, brazenly calling him by his first name.

Maybe the 'oh' was not so bad after all, he mused. "No, I am just heading to the tavern."

"What a coincidence," the caballero exclaimed, breaking his silence. "I ran into Sofía and her aunt and uncle a short time ago. They were passing through town on the way to an engagement at the hacienda of Don Tomas. It will be such a boring affair. No place for a lovely young lady, you know…"

"No, I do not know," Juan interrupted, dreading where this was leading.

"Don Tomas is notorious for dull gatherings," Diego continued without missing a beat. He reached for his lace-trimmed handkerchief and stifled an exaggerated yawn. Juan resisted the urge to laugh; it was more ornate than the señorita's scarf. And was that a whiff of perfume he smelled? "I stepped in and offered to accompany Sofía to market day."

"Diego rode to my rescue," Sofía chimed in.

"And the point of this charming story is what?" Juan inquired.

"Have I been blathering?" the don asked, feigning mortification.

"Sí, you were blathering, Diego," she agreed.

Juan rolled his eyes. De la Vega certainly put on a show.

"Forgive me, por favor. The point I am trying to arrive at is that Sofía and I are about to have lunch, too," the don explained. "Since we are also heading to the tavern, perhaps you will join us, Capitán?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Sofia beamed.

Juan's only desire was to claim a solitary table in the posada and eat a meal in relative silence. He dreaded listening to this chipmunk. However, the phony dandy backed him into a corner. He fleetingly wondered if the fox somehow put this all into motion, but even el Zorro could not have planned this encounter with so little notice. Maybe Sofía trapped him and Diego simply wanted someone to deflect the 'oh's. With no other choice, he accepted the invitation.

The trio walked together to the tavern, Sofía pausing to examine every shiny object that caught her eye, and climbed the stairs. Juan opened the door for the señorita when de la Vega snapped his fingers.

"I almost forgot… I have an appointment with the farrier this afternoon." Diego pulled a pocket watch from the interior of his elegant blue suit. A suit more elaborate than usual, Juan noted. "I am already running late. Sofía, I am sorry, but do you mind terribly if I leave you to the company of our capitán?"

Her eyes glittered and she latched onto Juan's arm. "Of course not, Diego."

"Capitán?" the young don inquired. The hazel eyes filled with mischievous sparks.

Juan gritted his teeth. Damn, the fox one-upped him again! He affected his most charismatic smile. "I do not mind at all, Don Diego. I would much rather enjoy a good meal with a pretty señorita than spending the day with the farrier."

"Gracias," the sly fox replied. He handed the package in his possession to the officer. "I am to escort Sofía home, but I may be awhile, Capitán. My manservant, Bernardo, is fetching a carriage from my hacienda as we speak. Feel free to use it if I am delayed."

Sofía practically bounced in joy and squeezed his arm tighter. "I owe you, de la Vega," Juan said with a hint of menace only his foe would detect as the young don bounded down the steps. He expected the caballero to be long gone when they finished eating.

Diego turned, flashed a toothy smile and saluted.

Guiding the lady to a table, Juan slid into the chair opposite her. "I am curious about your surname, Sofía," he commented when the chipmunk shut up long enough to order their meals, "Do you have any relatives serving in the army?"

"Oh, sí, my uncle is stationed in Puigcerdá. He is a capitán just like you, but we have not heard from him in a long time. By now, he should be a colonel. It is a mystery why he hasn't written any of us." Her sad features perked up. "Do you know him?"

"Ah, I am afraid not," he lied smoothly, thinking of his former commanding officer. Juan raised the glass to his lips to hide a smirk. A deserter and a chipmunk—what a family! He briefly wondered what the rest of her relatives were like, but swiftly scratched that thought from his mind. The commandante hoped never to find out.

* * *

When the longest lunch Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales had ever experienced finally concluded, he urged Sofía outside. She smiled at the de la Vega servant, who stood by a carriage several feet away, not looking at all confused by the absence of his master. He led her to the waiting vehicle and assisted her inside.

Circling to the other side, Bernardo slipped in and took the reins ahead of him. Juan fought the temptation to let the deaf mute have her; Sofía would probably make a loud fuss if the officer did not accompany her. "I am driving."

Sofía giggled. Realizing he was talking to deaf man, he motioned for the little one to get out, but the servant only smiled and bobbed his head. The capitán grabbed the driver by the elbow and goaded him to exit, finally yanking the reins from his grasp.

Bernardo scowled and Morales pointed to the backseat. A gentle push and the deaf mute climbed in. Giving the command to get the horse moving, Juan almost simultaneously gave the signal to slow. What if Diego somehow conveyed to his mozo that he should depart as soon as the capitán escorted the señorita to the door? He would be stuck with the chipmunk!

"There is a matter that needs my attention before we go," Juan jumped from the carriage. "It will only take a few minutes, por favor." Not waiting for a reply, he jogged to the cuartel. He returned with a saddled Hero and secured the white mount to the rear of the vehicle.

By the time they reached her uncle's home, Juan envied the deaf mute. His ears went numb from the constant high-pitched drone. Following the arduous task of extricating the chipmunk from his elbow on the hacienda's patio, Morales found himself attempting to communicate with Bernardo again.

Of course the manservant stayed, yet Morales' gut instinct told him that if he didn't bring the mare, the balding little man would be long gone by now. "You can go home," he said, making shooing motions with his hands. "Go home." Juan hesitated and ran fingers through his hair. "Why am I talking to a man who cannot hear?"

He took Bernardo by the elbow and guided him to the carriage. "Get in," he pointed. The manservant obeyed and Morales passed him the reins. Bernardo passed them back.

"No," he shook his head, thrusting the leather straps into the mozo's palms again. He pointed in the direction of the de la Vega hacienda. Juan then indicated the mute and traced the shape of a house in the air with his hands. "Home."

Bernardo suddenly smiled and nodded his head. Juan breathed a sigh of relief when the carriage began moving. Swinging onto Hero's back, he quickly made his escape from the chipmunk's burrow.

When he returned to the safety and security of the garrison, he motioned for Sergeant Garcia to follow him to his office. Slumping into the supple leather, he savored the silence.

"Did you enjoy lunch with the señorita?" Garcia asked.

The deep baritone was music to the commandante's sore ears. "Enjoy is not the term I would use," he quipped. "During Sofía's non-stop chattering, she failed to mention how much longer she will remain with her uncle and aunt. Uncle Ruperto and Aunt Beatriz, that is, not her aunt in San Miguel or her uncle in…" Juan trailed off midsentence and bolted upright in the chair, his blue eyes wide in horror. "Dear lord, I am beginning to talk like that chipmunk."

Garcia chuckled. "Sí, she does sound a little like a chipmunk."

"That does not leave this office," Morales warned.

"Oh, no, Commandante, never," Garcia agreed.

"Good," Morales nodded. "How much longer is she scheduled to be here?"

"The last I heard, the señorita received word from her parents they would be delayed a few more weeks," Garcia replied. "They are stopping to see another uncle on their return. She sure has a lot of relatives."

Juan leaned forward, propped his elbows on the desk and cupped his face in his hands. He seriously wondered if enacting a law to ban her from speaking would be overstepping his bounds as commandante.

* * *

Three days.

Three days of watching soldiers bungle their way through the obstacle course. Three days of eating garrison food. Three days of hiding in the cuartel in fear of encountering the chipmunk, the only escape coming from leading his men on night patrols. Capitán Morales grew increasingly tired and irritable at his self-imposed confinement. He wanted nothing more than to dine on a tasty meal in the tavern in the company of the attractive barmaids—without damaging his eardrums.

Wielding his rapier in the confines of his office, he executed a textbook lunge. Juan needed someone to fence with. The duel with Emilio Maradona and the friendly bouts with the soldiers in San Diego during Private Ortega's initial recovery only whetted his appetite for competition. His men certainly were not up to the task. He did recall hearing gossip that Lalo Peralta and Audre Ruiz were rather skilled with the blade. Perhaps Sergeant Garcia could spread word the capitán sought sparring partners.

Huffing, Juan had enough. He was the commandante; he would not cower from a woman and he did not need to rely on the sergeant to find him worthy fencing opponents.

Sheathing the sword, Morales grabbed his hat. Exiting the office, he observed Reyes returning from the afternoon foot patrol. "Corporal," he summoned. The droopy lancer ambled to the small portico outside the commandante's quarters.

"Sí, Capitán?"

"Your patrol went well, I presume?"

"Sí."

"By chance, did you see Señorita Pavia in the plaza during your rounds?"

"No."

"What about her uncle and aunt?"

"No."

Feeling his spirits improving tenfold, Morales dismissed the corporal, only Reyes did not budge from his spot. Instead, the sleepy face held a peculiar look. Reyes raised a finger to his lips as if deep in thought, if that were at all feasible. "What is troubling you, Corporal?" Morales inquired.

"I did not see the señorita, but that does not mean she was not in the plaza," Reyes began slowly. "I cannot look everywhere. She could be somewhere I was not looking." He lowered his hand, appearing quite satisfied with his line of reasoning.

Morales blinked hard. "Very astute observation, Corporal," he quipped.

"Gracias, Capitán!" Reyes exclaimed.

The commandante chuckled lightly as he strolled across the square to the tavern. Another amusing sight awaited him at his destination. Sergeant Garcia lingered outside the establishment, nodding to passersby and waving friendly greetings, his head dropping in disappointment when no one offered to treat him to a meal or drink inside. Morales smiled; after subsisting on the garrison food for so long, he sympathized with Garcia's longing for the posada.

"Sergeant, join me for a drink in the tavern."

His sad expression instantly brightened. "Gracias, Capitán, gracias!"

"After you, Sergeant." Morales motioned for Garcia to proceed ahead when that all too familiar shriek resounded over the square once again. Never had his name sounded so repulsive on a woman's lips.

"Juan, oh, Juan!"

For someone so shrill, how did she manage to keep sneaking up on him? Morales took a deep breath, forced a smile and spun on his heels to meet the chipmunk. Sofia trotted toward the tavern with Diego in tow, only this time, he noted with satisfaction, the young don did not look as cheerful. Instead, de la Vega looked very much like a man with a throbbing headache. Even the deaf mute manservant trailing behind appeared to be in pain.

"Oh, Juan, I'm so glad we ran into each other this afternoon," she squeaked, drawing to a stop. "I have not seen you the last few days and began to fear you were avoiding me."

"I could never avoid you, Sofía," Juan replied, the irony in the words passing over her head.

She blushed and glanced at the tavern. "Are you about to have lunch?"

"No," Juan answered, "I must return to the cuartel."

"But, Capitán," Garcia interrupted, "you were going to buy me a dr–"

Morales nudged his elbow into the sergeant's belly to shut him up. "I have several reports to finish and my superiors in Monterey are waiting on them."

"But you sent those off with the courier this–" Garcia interrupted once more, and once more he received a nudge in the belly from the capitán. The sergeant crinkled his forehead in confusion and gingerly rubbed his battered stomach.

Morales gave him a stern glare to keep quiet. "There are other reports on my desk requiring my attention. Sergeant Garcia has obviously finished his duties. He is free to join you."

"Gracias, Capitán," Garcia beamed, his tender stomach forgotten.

"Oh," Sofía muttered, turning her eyes downward.

With a flourish, Diego extracted an even lacier silk handkerchief from his jacket and dabbed at his neck. The overpowering perfume tickled the officer's nose and nearly made him sneeze. Even Garcia wrinkled his nose at the smell, though Juan doubted it curbed the sergeant's craving for refreshments.

"If the courier has already left, cannot the capitán spare an hour or so from his busy schedule to have lunch with a lovely señorita?" de la Vega inquired, taking the opportunity to interject his opinion amid the cloud of nauseating fragrance.

Morales refused to allow the fox to trap him so easily this time. Inching backwards to fresher air, he put on the most gracious of smiles. "I already stole Sofía away from you once, Don Diego. I would not want to intrude and deprive you of her charming company at the present."

"It is no imposition at all, Capitán," Diego replied smoothly. As the don tucked the handkerchief away, Juan noticed the convoluted ruffles on the caballero's shirt. What was this dandy playing at? "Sofía and I have spent the better part of the morning together while our families discuss business. I am sure she would be happy to have you join us."

Morales detected a hint of forced congeniality as de la Vega spoke and hid an impish grin. No wonder the don looked like a man with a throbbing headache. Apparently, the chipmunk snared the fox. Either that or his own damned perfume got to him, too. Maybe even both…

"It would make me very happy," she beamed.

Distracted by the pleasant deliberations, Sofía's squeak jarred him back to the present. While the chipmunk may have snared the fox, the fox cornered the capitán again. Juan frantically searched his mind for a suitable counter excuse when the sound of galloping hoof beats drew his attention. He glanced over his shoulder.

A magnificent chocolate-colored mare swept into the plaza, kicking up a small cloud of dust in her wake. An equally fetching Moneta Esperon sat at the reins. She pulled the horse to a stop a few yards away from the small group. "Did you forget our riding date, Capitán?"

Juan eyed the rider suspiciously. He had not seen or spoken to her since she slapped him at the Torres' party. But then he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth; he would much rather experience a slap from Moneta over Sofía's grating voice any day. "My apologies, Señorita," he bowed, "it seems to have slipped my mind. Permit me a moment and I will fetch my mount from the cuartel."

He turned to Sofía, finding the flash of jealousy in her eyes disconcerting. "I am sorry, but I have another engagement." An idea struck. "Do you know any poetry?"

Sofía stared at him curiously. "Sí, I know a few poems."

Juan leaned in closer. "Don Diego once confided to me how much he adores your lovely voice. He compared it to the beautiful cadence of a morning songbird. As an admirer of the arts, I am sure he would be delighted if you recited him some verses."

Sofía's eyes lit up and she gazed at Diego with new admiration. "Gracias, Juan, I shall do that."

He winked at her. "Enjoy your lunch." Saluting, he bid them goodbye.

"Gracias, Capitán," Diego called out, his inflection laced with the same subtle hint of menace employed by Juan during their last encounter.

Chuckling at his opponent's well-deserved predicament, Juan quickly saddled Hero and rejoined Moneta near the well. They rode to the edge of the pueblo in silence, when out of the blue she dug her heels into her mare's sides and took off like a lightning bolt. Juan watched, momentarily stunned, before a wide grin spread across his face and he gave chase.

Racing down El Camino Real at breakneck speed, Hero gradually gained on the chocolate mare. As Juan came up by her side, Moneta slowed and veered off the main highway. Whipping his head around to see where she went, he maneuvered Hero in pursuit.

Moneta stayed on the narrow trail for a few miles and then swerved onto the open terrain. Juan resisted the urge to shout out a warning of the dangers. Señorita Esperon and her horse leaped over boulders and fallen tree trunks as one. Juan observed her with admiration as he guided Hero over the same obstacles.

She finally slowed her horse down to a walk, allowing the animal to cool down. Juan caught up and followed suit and they remained silent. Stopping near a small lake in a grove, the regal San Gabriel Mountains rising in the distance, she led her mare to the water and dismounted. As the horses drank, she strolled to the shade and sat beneath a tree.

"They say in Spain that Californios learn to ride before they learn to walk. Evidently, it is true. That is a stunning animal and you are an extraordinary horsewoman," he complimented.

"Gracias," she replied and patted the ground beside her. "Are you going to sit?"

The earth at the base of the tree consisted of mostly dirt with a few blades of patchy grass. He indicated his trousers. "You have the advantage of a dark riding dress, Señorita, while I am wearing white."

Moneta laughed; it was beautiful music to his ears. "I did not perceive you as the vain type, Capitán."

Juan gave one more glance to the dirt and sighed. Surrendering, he took a seat next to her. He loosened the chin cord on his hat and tossed it aside. "I am forever indebted to you, Moneta, for rescuing me from that chipmunk," he grimaced as soon as the description rolled off his tongue, "I mean Señorita Pavia."

She did not say anything at his slip, only shook her head in amusement.

"You are the last person I expected to help me."

"My father and I had breakfast with the Cortazars this morning. Margarita informed me about your last encounter with the _chipmunk_," she teased, "and Sofia's growing infatuation with her dashing suitor. When, on our return home, we passed Diego and Sofía on their way into the pueblo, I thought you might appreciate some interference."

"I owe her infatuation," he scoffed, "to Don Diego and his appointment with the farrier."

"The farrier?" she repeated giggling. "Is that what he told you?"

"I am afraid the humor escapes me. What is so funny, if I may inquire?"

"The de la Vegas have a worker who tends to all of their horseshoeing needs, as do many of the larger ranchos," she replied, the giggling subsiding. "They do not use the services of the farrier in town."

"Wonderful," Juan quipped. Score another point for the fox. "This still doesn't tell me why you decided to take pity on me. We did not exactly part on the best of terms during our last meeting." He reached up and rubbed his cheek for emphasis.

"I want to apologize."

"There is no need; I may have deserved the slap."

"Sí, you did," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "that is not what I was apologizing for." She turned her head and gazed off at the horses. "It is my fault we got off to a bad start. I was suspicious and did not want to give you a fair chance. When I witnessed what you did for Emilio, I realized my error."

Juan remained quiet, pensively recalling the event that seemed so long ago.

"You showed great honor in sparing his life. That, combined with your dedication to transporting the rebels to Mexico for trial, shows us all that you are a fine officer and a worthy leader. It will be nice to live in a peaceful pueblo after so much corruption and unrest."

A small smiled traced along his lips. "Were things really that bad here?"

"Whatever you have heard, it was worse," she replied. "Rancheros taxed out of existence, Indians forced into slave labor, people afraid to utter a single word of protest in fear of retaliation…" Taking a deep breath, Moneta trailed off and her voice softened. "It wasn't always like that."

"What was it like?"

"When I was a child, Los Angeles was a tranquil community. Some might even call it boring. It wasn't perfect by any stretch; there have always been bandits in the hills and minor altercations, usually caused by gambling and too much drinking in the tavern, but Capitán Linares dealt with those disturbances swiftly." She smiled as if recalling a distant memory. "The biggest troublemakers were the boys playing pranks on the soldiers and rancheros. Diego, Emilio, Audre, Ramon… they were a rambunctious lot!"

"And you?" Juan asked.

Moneta laughed. "I always wanted to tag along and play with the boys, but they never wanted a girl with them on their adventures, unless they needed a pretty damsel in distress to save."

Juan joined in her laughter. "You don't strike me as a damsel in distress."

"Gracias," she nodded, "Why could you not have arrived years ago? Perhaps you could have talked them into letting me participate in their horse races."

"You do realize why they did not want to race you?" he inquired.

"No. Why?"

"It's quite simple, my dear. Because you would likely best them."

"You are a charming one," she observed. As they sat under the tree enjoying the ambiance, her joyful mood slowly faded. "Everything changed when Capitán Linares retired and went to live with his daughter. Not all at once, but little misunderstandings slowly built up. When Capitán Monastario arrived, we were all intrigued. He was young and handsome and dashing. In some ways, you re…" she trailed off and stared directly at Juan.

"In some ways, I what?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing, it is silly," she turned away bashfully. "I don't even know who started it or all of the details, but a minor dispute arose between the dons and Monastario. Both sides held their ground; neither would yield nor apologize for their harsh words. From there, it escalated with Monastario intimidating all who disagreed with him. Don Nacho finally summoned the courage to stand up to the commandante only to be promptly arrested for treason."

"What of the alcalde and the city council?"

"Monastario brought in a crooked lawyer from Mexico City to strip them of their authority and lend credence to his actions. The two of them succeeded in getting the pueblo put under martial law. That put an end to any civil recourse."

"I read the full reports, Moneta. Don Nacho had his day in court and was found not guilty at a trial presided over by that 'crooked' lawyer," Juan commented. "Monastario's methods may have been strict, but that does not make them wrong."

Her head snapped in his direction, her jaw clenched and eyes alit with fury. For a brief second, Juan anticipated another slap across the cheek. "Strict? Is that your response? He was a tyrant!" Her breaths shortened and her shoulders stiffened. "Do you know what he did when Don Nacho sought sanctuary at the mission? He rounded up all of the mission's Indians—men Padre Felipe considers his children—and forced them to clear a rocky area for a road."

"It is perfectly within the limits of the law for him to have done so," Juan pointed out.

"Forcing them to move giant boulders at the crack of the whip?" she argued. "When Padre Felipe aided a few of his children in escaping to the hills, Monastario deprived them of water! And when they finished?" she paused for emphasis. "The capitán ordered them to move the boulders back! How can those actions be justified? It may be legally right, but it is morally wrong."

Juan did not have a clever comeback or a philosophical quote to counter with. Sitting there, staring at the horses as they nibbled on grass and weeds, he struggled to reconcile Moneta's fervent hatred with the once highly decorated officer. He read the official statements, talked to Sergeant Garcia and heard whispers from the dons, but had yet to get a firsthand account of life under Monastario's regime from one of the citizens. "I read the reports, but I didn't realize—"

"Of course you didn't. Monastario wrote those reports. He would never paint himself in a bad light," she snickered. "How can you defend a man who commits such abuses and who was led away in chains?"

"Your commandante accused one of the viceroy's closest family friends of being a notorious outlaw," he joked. "Forget any of his other indiscretions. That in itself was destined not to end well."

"The dons scorn your flippant wit."

"Don Sebastian has said as much to my face." He shifted position and leaned in closer to the señorita, palm resting on the ground, as a quotation came to mind in his defense. "In case of dissension, never dare to judge till you've heard the other side."

Moneta's posture relaxed and her anger slowly dissipated. Her gold-flecked hazel eyes locked on his glittering blues. "Euripides also wrote 'Impudence is the worst of all human diseases.'"

"You continue to impress me," Juan whispered into her ear.

Blushing, she averted her gaze. "If not for Zorro, he would have succeeded in breaking us," she resumed, her respect for the masked man shining as clear as day. "After Monastario, we thought life would get better. Instead, it took a turn for the worse. There were murders in the streets, including that of Capitán Melindez, who never even stepped foot inside the cuartel."

"Ah, Jose Varga," Juan remarked, drawing back, "His conspiracy made big news in Spain."

"After he was defeated, life quieted down for a short while, but then Emissary Basilio arrived." Her hands fidgeted in her lap. "He developed some strange obsession with my father's hacienda. He steered Sergeant Garcia into drawing attention to some items we own from other countries. The next thing I know, Basilio is accusing my father of treason on the grounds of trading with the enemy. If not for the sergeant and Zorro, we would have lost everything my family worked for."

Juan settled against the tree trunk. "What about Commandante Toledano? Was he not a bright spot?"

"Capitán Toledano was but a tease to us. He did not make a favorable first impression, similar to you," she grinned, "but was an excellent officer. No sooner did he arrive than he was called to San Diego." She looked at him curiously. "How do you know of him?"

"Colonel Toledano handed me my new orders to head up the garrison in Los Angeles," Juan chuckled, "right after he promoted me to capitán."

"Another mark in your favor, Juan," Moneta commented playfully. "You are young to be a capitán," she indicated his medals, "and such a decorated one at that. Tell me more about yourself. What part of Spain are you from? Do you descend from a long line of dashing military men?"

"Not exactly." Juan grinned; her use of his given name did not escape his notice. "My family has owned vast land holdings in Seville, where I was born and raised, for generations. In addition to their cattle, horses and wine, their main priority has been preserving and increasing those holdings. My father expanded the Morales fortune by investing in merchant ships, exporting Spanish goods abroad and importing fine silk, spices and other items from the Orient."

"You are the son of Don Tristán Morales?" she inquired incredulously.

"Ah, you have heard of him."

"Half of the articles in our hacienda were acquired from him."

"I trust he gave you a good price," Juan quipped. "My father would travel across the country seeking craftsmen who made unique goods and purchase them for resale. I went along with him on numerous trips and they were intriguing enough, but the rest of his time was spent rising at the crack of dawn to meet his ships coming into port, inspecting the merchandise and filling out bureaucratic paperwork."

"And that did not appeal to you," Moneta shrewdly surmised.

"I sought a life with more adventure."

"Why the army?" she prodded. "A man of your means and lineage certainly had every opportunity in the world. Did you follow in the footsteps of other relatives?"

"You might say that," he chuckled. "I do have a closer relative who influenced me to choose this path."

"Have you found the adventures you sought?"

"Let's see… as commandante of the pueblo, I get to rise early in the morning, perform daily inspections of the garrison and fill out bureaucratic paperwork," he winked, "and all while wearing this fancy uniform."

She giggled. "Seriously, Juan, did you find adventure?"

"Sí, I have been stationed in Barcelona, Pamplona, Zaragoza, Madrid, Puigcerdá and now Los Angeles to name just a few places. There are always new challenges waiting with each destination," he explained, "and as my superiors have often pointed out, when I don't find challenges, I create them."

"No doubt many of those challenges involved wooing the pretty señoritas," Moneta added drolly, "who are attracted to that fancy uniform."

"Not as many as you might think," Juan replied, laughing. Did he detect a hint of jealousy? "I have rarely been in one place long enough to form any lasting relationship, let alone seriously court any pretty girls." He grew intense. "I do hope to change that with my current posting."

Moneta blushed again and changed the subject. "What about your father's business? What happens to it when he retires with you stationed so far from home? Do you have any siblings to take it over?"

"It's in good hands. Roberto, my brother, inherited the estate. Well, technically, he and my sister, Mercedes, are my half-siblings, the children of my father's first marriage. My mother died shortly before I began my studies at the university. My father died a year later," Juan smiled wistfully at the memories of his parents, "He provided well for me in his will and I will always have a job with Roberto if I desire, but my calling is the military."

"Are you close to your brother and sister?"

"Yes and no." At her confused expression, he further explained, "We have always gotten along well, but the differences in our ages precluded us from forming a tight knit bond. Roberto is the oldest and as far as I can remember, he worked alongside my father. When I was six years old, Mercedes got married and moved to Madrid with her husband." Juan chuckled. "I vaguely recall my father giving a toast at the reception applauding the merging of two of Spain's finest families. I had to ask Roberto what it meant."

Moneta laughed softly. "So you are the pampered baby of the family."

"They would not disagree with that," Juan replied, joining her in laughter. "Hmm, what else is there to tell? I have four nephews and two nieces. I take great pleasure in fencing, fine wines and racing first-rate horses. I enjoy the thrill of competition and I always win."

She raised an eyebrow, "Always?"

"Always," he confirmed with a sly grin. "Did I pass your interrogation?"

"I am sorry if my inquisitiveness came off as an interrogation," she answered, her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink, "I was only curious. But, sí, you did pass with flying colors."

"I'm glad. I will voluntarily answer any question you have; you need only to ask."

"When you phrase it that way, how can I resist? My father would like to extend an invitation for you to join us at dinner tomorrow evening at our hacienda. Shall I inform him you accept?"

"Is this invitation from your father," he asked daringly, "or you?"

"A lady will never tell," she responded playfully.

"In that case, I accept."

"Good," Moneta nodded, "We look forward to your company." She motioned to the changing colors of the mountains painted by the setting sun. "The afternoon is growing late and I must be getting home before my father begins to worry. I am sure Diego has managed to wangle free of the chipmunk's paws and return her to her aunt and uncle by now. You should be safe upon returning to the cuartel."

"You are not going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Nicknaming Sofía a chipmunk? No, I am not going to let you live that down," she teased. "Do not fret about me slipping… you had best worry if she starts calling you Juanito."

"That is something I would put an immediate stop to. Only two people have ever called me Juanito," at her dubious gaze, he chuckled, "and it's not what you think. My mother and brother called me that."

"You and Roberto must be closer than you lead me to believe," Moneta remarked.

"Oh, Roberto never–" he caught the words rolling off his tongue. Tracing a finger along the lower edge of his lip, he grinned. "It is my brother's way of showing affection, but more often than not, he uses the nickname in a more taunting nature. One of the perks of having an older brother," he joked. She appeared satisfied with his explanation and did not say anything more on the subject.

Grabbing his hat, he rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his trousers. Moneta giggled at the fruitless effort. Juan stared at her in mock annoyance for a moment and then extended a hand in her direction. After assisting the señorita to her feet, he boldly leaned in and kissed her. Pulling away, he opened his eyes and saw her expression radiating with amusement.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" she asked.

"That is to show my sincerest thanks to the beautiful heroine who rode to my rescue."

"I must do it more often."

"I will hold you to that, Moneta," he whispered in her ear.

She slipped her hand into his, their fingers entwining, and led him to the horses. Releasing her grasp, Moneta climbed aboard the chocolate mare. "So, you _always_ win every competition?" she teased, her mount dancing in anticipation beneath her. "It will be my honor to present you with your first defeat."

"How do you propose to do that?" Juan asked, swinging onto Hero.

"It's very simple, my dear Juanito. I will race you to my hacienda—and win." With those parting words, she took off like a gust of wind, her sweet laughter floating on the breeze to his ears. The capitán grinned and urged Hero in pursuit.

* * *

Having conceded a rare defeat to the beautiful Moneta Esperon—a rather enjoyable defeat, he reflected privately—Juan steered his horse in the direction of the cuartel. His happy mood soared even higher when the chipmunk was nowhere to be seen. Yet, all the while, he could not quite shake the elegant señorita's open display of vehemence toward his predecessor.

Riding through the gates, the capitán found Sergeant Garcia chatting with some of the other soldiers near the barracks. No doubt they were discussing their aching joints and the cruelty of morning drills and obstacle courses. The group raised their heads at his arrival. He pointed to his office and Garcia quickly waddled across the courtyard. Passing the reins to a private tending the stable, Juan followed the portly soldier.

"Sit, Sergeant," he instructed once they were inside.

Juan tossed his hat aside and hung his scabbard on the wall hook. Leaning against the desk, he crossed one boot over the other while folding his arms over his chest. "I want to know all of the details that are not in the official reports."


	10. Chapter 10

**Outsmarting a Fox**

**Chapter 10  
"The Trouble with Brothers"**

Fresh from his bath, Capitán Juan Sebastian Morales dressed in his finest uniform. While adjusting the cuffs of his shirt beneath the jacket, he moved to stand in front of the mirror. He almost ordered Sergeant Garcia to press his clothes, but reconsidered at the last minute and opted to do the job himself. Fabric adorned with iron marks was not quite his style.

Satisfied each medal was pinned straight and not the slightest smudge marred his polished boots, he began brushing invisible specks of lint from his jacket sleeves. When Morales finished with the arduous task, his eyes shifted to the aiguillette positioned on his shoulder. He fidgeted with the white, braided cord until it hung just right.

Leaning in closer to the mirror, he ran a hand along his jaw. His cheeks and neck were as smooth as a baby's bottom; his moustache and goatee trimmed to perfection. Smiling at the handsome commandante in the reflection, he reached for the cologne atop the bureau out of habit.

His fingers barely brushed the glass when he jerked his hand away, as if the mere touch of the bottle would burn his skin. The capitán still could not escape the smell of de la Vega's blasted perfume from the day before. Morales swore the nauseating odor permanently tainted the plaza. He did not need to compound the problem.

The officer picked up the comb instead and ran it repeatedly through his short, dark hair. Realization dawning on him, he slowed to a stop, stared at the object in his hand and tossed it onto the top of the bureau. "You are not a schoolboy, Juan," he muttered to the reflection, "and this is not your first dinner date with a beautiful señorita."

Feeling foolish at the ridiculous display of nerves, Morales gathered his hat and gloves, fetched Hero from the stable and exited the cuartel. Keeping the mare to a slow walk, he kept an eye out for the old Indian woman who maintained a booth on the edge of the pueblo. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, he hoped she had not yet gone home for the evening.

Sure enough, she was there, just as she had been since he first arrived in Los Angeles.

Morales dismounted and selected a dozen of the largest red roses in her collection. The woman gathered the blooms and tied the stems together with a length of ribbon. Handing the bouquet to the capitán, she grinned knowingly. "The señorita is very fortunate."

Morales passed her a few coins and returned the grin. "Gracias."

She gaped at the money cupped in her quivering palms, eyes growing wide.

He stifled a chuckle and climbed aboard Hero. "Gracias, Capitán, gracias," she called out as he rode away. Taking the roses and reins in one hand, he turned and waved with the other.

Savoring the solitude of the empty road leading to the Esperon hacienda, his thoughts drifted to the beautiful Moneta and the thrilling chase she led him on. Oh, how he delighted in watching her equestrian skill on full display, the wind whipping at his face and the thunder of hooves hitting the earth!

Hooves. Hoof beats.

The rhythm of approaching hoof beats shook him from his reverie. Morales blinked hard. Since when did a woman hold such power over him? Deep down, he knew the answer.

Liliana de Santiago.

As a young boy just discovering the allure of the fairer sex, Liliana de Santiago stole his heart. Without his brother's advice and prodding, he would never have amassed the courage to speak to the girl with the crooked braids. When she bestowed on him his first kiss, he felt like he could have flown with the birds amongst the clouds. Liliana consumed his every thought, even long after she broke his heart.

From that day on—and much to his mother's dismay, for she desired grandchildren—Morales remained purposely aloof, taking pleasure in women's affections while keeping his own in check. Pretty señoritas all across Spain vied for the dashing soldier's attention, yet he never daydreamed about any of them.

Somehow, Moneta Esperon did the impossible. She broke through his defenses.

Pushing the disconcerting feeling away, Morales concentrated on the chestnut horse. The capitán quirked an eyebrow when he recognized the rider as the de la Vega servant. During his tenure in Los Angeles, he could not recall the deaf mute straying from his master's side for very long, with one notable exception—the afternoon Diego tricked him into lunch with Sofía.

For a fleeting second, Morales wondered what de la Vega had planned, but he refused to allow the fox to ruin his evening with Moneta. Garcia could deal with it. Bernardo, wearing his usual cheerful expression, smiled and wiggled his fingers as they passed. The little one's jovial spirits were contagious and the capitán gladly returned the gesture.

Tossing one last glance over his shoulder toward the disappearing manservant, Morales continued onward to the Esperon rancho. To keep his mind off Moneta and Zorro, he urged Hero into a canter and concentrated on the ridges of the mountains in the distance. Finally arriving at the hacienda, the capitán swung off the saddle and tethered the horse's reins to the hitching post outside the gate.

Morales straightened his uniform, crossed the patio to the house and knocked on the door. It swung open and a servant motioned for him to enter.

"Oh, Capitán!"

He could not hide the shudder at the high-pitched tone. Morales stared, mouth open, as the chipmunk sauntered up next to him. What in the hell was she doing here? And why could she have not spoken thirty seconds earlier? If only heard the shrill voice while on the patio, he could have fled to the safety of the cuartel.

_Bernardo…_

"Oh, what beautiful flowers!" Sofía exclaimed, snatching the roses from his grasp. "Muchas gracias." She held them out to show the others, not daring to leave his side, and squeaked up a storm about what a charming and considerate officer he was.

Morales gazed around the sala, half expecting to see Diego de la Vega's smug smile—or at the very least smell him—but there was no sign of the dandy. Moneta sat on the sofa biting her lips in a poor job of hiding her giggle, while her father rose from his chair to greet the newly arrived guest. Uncle Ruperto and Aunt Beatriz shared conspiratorial looks of glee.

Sofía stopped talking long enough to smell the blooms. The respite was short lived. "Oh, the aroma is lovely, Capitán. How did you know red roses are my favorite?"

He had the sneaking suspicion he could have presented her a bundle of weeds picked from the desert and they would be her favorite. In dizzying array, Don Cornelio collected the commandante's hat and gloves and Sofía latched onto his arm. She pulled him deeper into the sala. Before Morales registered what happened, he was next to her on a loveseat with a glass of wine in his grip.

As the start of a massive headache took root, Morales tried to look at the positive side. The chipmunk regressed to calling him by his rank in front of her elders. He did not have to suffer through hearing her shriek his given name all night. Sipping the ruby liquid, he frowned.

If only he had something stronger to drink than wine…

Where was Capitán Zambrano's bourbon when he needed it?

* * *

Amid the veil of darkness, gentle breezes floated over the garden, rustling lush green foliage. Soft moonlight glistened off night blooming flowers. Only the occasional hoot of an owl broke the steady drone of crickets chirping in the distance. Most important of all, the darkness embraced tranquility.

Inhaling deeply, the beleaguered capitán relished the soothing qualities of the cool, crisp air. After dinner, he managed to sneak away from the chipmunk to the study. Double doors led to a raised patio overlooking the Esperon garden. Stairs to his left led down to a flagstone walkway, but Juan preferred the view from where he stood.

Leaning with his forearms on the balustrade, he closed his eyes and took solace in the stillness. Time floated away. He had no idea how long he had been on the patio when he heard faint footsteps and the swish of silk from behind. Juan momentarily tensed, but when no squeak emanated from the figure, he exhaled the breath he held and allowed his muscles to relax.

"It is not polite to step out on your hosts."

Juan grinned. "It is not polite to have an ambush lying in wait for your guests."

Moneta joined him at the railing carved from stone and gazed out at the garden.

He glanced at her sideways. "When you invited me to your home for dinner, I was under the impression it would be…" he searched for the right word, "a smaller affair. Instead, I was met with quite the deception. And here I thought you would always ride to my rescue."

"Is it not the duty of the debonair capitán to ride to the fair maiden's rescue?" she replied playfully. "Do not forget that I have had to listen to her, too."

"Touché," he conceded, "but you could have warned me by sending a message to the cuartel. If I had known what to expect, I would have slipped in and whisked you off into the sunset. At the very least, you should have taken a seat by the window and waved me off before I knocked on the door."

"Wave you off?" Moneta glared at him incredulously. "How did you get appointed to commandante with strategies like that? That is one of the silliest ideas I've heard from you," she scoffed. "I can just see it now. You would probably think I was flirting!"

Juan chuckled; she had a valid point. "Tell me, how did de la Vega pull it off?"

She raised a dubious eyebrow. "As in Diego de la Vega?"

"Sí, I ran into his manservant, Bernardo, on my way here. This has his touch written all over it."

Moneta glanced up at the stars in exasperation. "You two should be ashamed of yourselves. The way you both treat Sofía is terrible. I should not get involved, but this is not Diego's doing."

Juan straightened and ran his palms along the top of the grainy stone surface, detecting warmth where his forearms rested. His instincts told him it was no coincidence he encountered Bernardo on the road. He trusted his instincts. "It is admirable how you defend him, but de la Vega is craftier than you realize."

"Grown men behaving like children," she muttered under her breath, before spinning on her heel to face him. "My father had lunch with several of his friends this afternoon and bragged about his esteemed guest for this evening. Word spreads quickly in our pueblo. When Sofía learned of your plans, she urged her uncle to finagle an invitation from my father. Don Ruperto was most insistent."

Juan narrowed his eyes. "So, Diego was not present at this lunch?"

"No, only his father…"

"Aha!" Juan exclaimed, slapping the railing. "So Diego knew about it. I'll wager he spread the word."

Moneta threw her hands up in the air. "You are hopeless." She pressed her lips together and aimed a serious expression at the officer. "Sofía is under the impression that the two most eligible bachelors in Los Angeles are vying for her affection. It will shatter her if she finds out the truth."

"She won't learn the truth from me," Juan defended his honor. "If Diego is a true caballero, he'll keep his mouth shut, too. As soon as the chipmunk's parents come to retrieve her, it will all be over."

"For her sake, I hope you both know what you are doing."

"I always know what I am doing," he retorted, only to be met with a shake of her head. It was time to change the subject. "Considering I am standing in a picturesque garden with a charming señorita,"—Juan moved closer to Moneta and leaned an elbow on the balustrade—"I would rather not speak of de la Vega."

"That is amusing, considering you are the one who first mentioned him."

The corner of Juan's lip curled up. Two could play this game. He countered her teasing remark with one of his own. "You do realize Sofía stole your flowers."

She raised her hands to her chest in mock surprise. "Oh, those were for me?"

"You know very well who they were intended for," he retorted, his blue eyes glittering with mischievous sparks. "I suggest you lay claim to them."

"Beneath that respectable uniform, you are quite the rogue, aren't you?" she observed. "You would take great pleasure in watching me fight with Sofía over you. I will not give you the satisfaction. Though I doubt it would be the first time two women fought for your affections."

Juan remained silent.

Her hazel eyes locked with his baby blues, waiting in anticipation of a witty response. Moonlight caressed her porcelain skin and his hand found its way to her cheek. As his finger traced along her jaw, he lifted her chin up. Holding Moneta's gaze, Juan lowered his head and kissed her.

"I was correct," she breathed heavily as their lips parted, "you are a rogue."

"Then you should expect me to collect on your offer of a quiet meal."

"Is that your way of asking for another invitation to dinner?"

Juan grinned. "I had something else in mind."

"Hmm, and what is that?" she inquired, her interest piqued.

"Lunch tomorrow afternoon at the lake," he replied. "Just you and me. No hacienda, no tavern, no one to overhear our plans and certainly no chipmunk to ruin the atmosphere."

"It sounds delightful," she whispered. "I will bring the food; you bring the wine."

Juan reached for her waist and pulled her closer, their faces only inches apart. Moneta pressed her hand against his chest and rose on her toes to meet his lips. That is when the shrill voice radiating from the hacienda reached his ears.

"Juan? Oh, Juan…"

His head snapped upright and Moneta's mouth collided with his collar. Letting go of her waist, he ducked into the shadows, throwing the señorita stumbling off balance against the balustrade. He sent her an apologetic gaze as he sought refuge in the vine-covered trellis next to the open door.

Moneta's shoulders shook with laughter and she pressed fingers to her lips to keep the giggle contained. He was about to ask her what was so amusing when he heard the chipmunk entering the den.

"Juan? Are you here? Oh, Moneta, it is only you," Sofía said.

Her footsteps stopped just on the other side of the door. The tinge of jealously mixed with disappointment in her voice made the capitán shudder—and she returned to calling him by his given name. Pressing his body deeper into the vine, he gritted his teeth as thorns scratched his scalp and the bare flesh of his neck. A few exceptionally sharp spines managed to dig their way through the fibers of his uniform. One thorn in particular became a bit too intimate for the capitán's liking.

"I am looking for Juan. Have you seen him?" Sofía inquired.

"I was also looking for the commandante," Moneta replied. Juan admired how she shrewdly answered the question without having to lie. "It is very boorish of him to disappear without a word."

"You should not say such things," Sofía admonished.

"Why not?" Moneta countered. "Capitán Morales has failed to show my family even the most basic of courtesies. You were there yesterday. You saw how he forgot about our riding date. He was the last to show for dinner tonight and now he has the audacity to sneak off without alerting any of us."

Juan scrunched his nose and curled his fingers into fists at his sides. She took too much enjoyment in this!

"You do not know what you speak of, Moneta," Sofía gasped. "Juan is a charming man who is devoted to our king. There are times his duties must be put before his own desires."

The capitán rolled his eyes. If only the two women could switch viewpoints.

"If you want to believe that nonsense, it is your privilege," Moneta shrugged.

"It is not nonsense and I do believe it," Sofía declared and added maliciously, "It is no wonder he forgot about your riding date. You do not show him the respect he deserves."

Moneta huffed and folded her arms over her chest.

"If you do see Juan, will you please tell him I am looking for him?" Sofía asked.

"If I see him," Moneta replied curtly.

Sofía's firm footsteps—bordering on stomps—grew fainter. Not daring to move from the prickly vine, the capitán sent Moneta an inquiring glance. She held her hand up, signaling him to stay put. The door to the den closed with a thud.

"She is gone. It is safe to come out."

Juan breathed a sigh of relief and jumped away from the sharp plant. "You really aren't going to fight for me." She started to respond, but he cut her off before she could say it. "I know, you will not allow me the satisfaction." He rubbed the back of his neck and worked to yank any thorns from his clothes. Moneta giggled and he scowled. "It's not funny. That plant could have impaled me."

"Then it would have done its job," she remarked. "My room is directly above. Several young caballeros have attempted moonlight serenades, followed by a climb up the trellis. My father planted the meanest vine that will grow in Southern California."

"I gather since you are not married, it has worked well," he quipped, still feeling a prickly sensation.

"Sí." Moneta closed the distance between them and picked a clump of green off his shoulder. She pushed it in his palm, wrapping his fingers around it, the tantalizing touch sending his heart beating faster. "I should be getting back to the others. Do not take too long getting cleaned up or I will send the chipmunk out here." She headed for the den. With one hand still on the patio door, she paused and peered around it with impish eyes. "I am surprised you haven't passed a law to ban her from speaking."

Juan coughed and struggled not to look sheepish.

"You didn't!" she chided.

"Of course I didn't," he replied a bit too defensively. She quirked an eyebrow and he knew the devilish smirk gave him away, so he confessed to his plot. "I may have given it some serious consideration."

"You are incorrigible, Juanito."

She disappeared into the den with a 'tsk, tsk' and he tossed the offending plant over the railing. Juan considered finding Hero and fleeing to the cuartel, but he had a sinking feeling he might find the chipmunk camped out by the horse once she failed to find her target in the house. After picking what he hoped was the last piece of vine from his clothes, Juan rejoined the group inside.

* * *

Departing the Esperon hacienda, Capitán Morales once again took solace in the night air, images of Moneta lulling him into a trance. About a mile out from the pueblo, the small road he and Hero traversed merged with the larger street that ran through the plaza. Moments after making the turn toward town, the rumbling vibrations of approaching riders jolted Morales from his respite.

Slowing Hero to a stop, he scanned the horizon in the opposite direction. As clouds drifted in front of the moon, the light grew sparse. He squinted and counted at least four riders descending a hill—and they were advancing fast and hard. The capitán maneuvered Hero out of the way before the chaos trampled them into the dirt.

The group roared past, barely offering a fleeting glance at the commandante.

"And Moneta called me boorish." Morales patted his mount's neck. "Shall we see what all the commotion is about?" Hero neighed in approval. He grinned and urged her forward. Giving chase, they pursued the riders to the plaza, where Morales spotted the men dismounting and storming into the tavern.

The capitán, only seconds behind, swung down from the saddle. He took a minute to inspect the animals and recognized the branding on the horses as belonging to a local hacendado. Tack of first-rate quality combined with the glimpse he got of their clothing revealed these were not bandidos.

Morales followed them inside. Loud, angry shouts sprung from the riled up crowd. He caught sight of several lancers, including Sergeant Garcia and Corporal Reyes, in the midst of the furor. A few words and phrases made their way to his ears.

"Don Paulino will get him!"

"He is hiding in the hills!"

"I will kill him if I see him!"

The word 'kill' rose above the commotion and grabbed Morales' attention. He let out an ear-splitting whistle and the sala silenced. All eyes aimed on the officer. Morales surveyed the crowd. Four vaguely familiar men squirmed and slouched at the bar in a miserable attempt to hide from his field of vision. He discerned pistols tucked into their waistbands. "What is going on here?"

Garcia lumbered over to flank his superior. "It is terrible, Commandante! Manuel and his friends came bursting in here looking for men to chase poor Tito. They say he attacked Senorita Antúnez. She is such a sweet girl. I cannot believe it. Tito used to be such a nice boy."

At the name Manuel, Morales recognized the men with pistols. They were workers on the Antúnez rancho. The horses that ran him off the road belonged to the very same rancho. The capitán strode to the bar where other patrons cleared out of his path. "What happened?"

They exchanged nervous glances.

In a blatant act of pure cowardice, a fiend assaulted a girl and these men did not spring forth with information? It sent Morales' blood boiling. He firmed his jaw and bore down on the leader, using his height to intimidate the shorter man. "I am not in the mood to play games. I will only ask once more. What happened?"

"Tito Suárez attacked Señorita Antúnez," Manuel answered with a gulp.

"Is the señorita badly hurt?"

Manuel shrugged. "I… I don't know."

"Has someone called for the doctor?"

Manuel shrugged again.

Morales ran a hand through his hair. "Are you certain she was even attacked?"

"Sí," Jose chimed in. "Don Paulino walked in on it."

The capitán inwardly groaned. This was just what he needed—an angry brother out to get the man who assaulted his sister. Juan knew that if anyone harmed Mercedes, he would be the first to slay the bastard and no one would persuade him otherwise. "From those weapons, is it safe to assume you four are going to help Señor Antúnez locate Señor Suárez?"

"Sí," Jose nodded. "We are rounding up volunteers to hunt Suárez down."

"Shut up, you idiot!" Manuel cried.

"Lancers, escort these troublemakers to the jail to cool off." Morales addressed the crowd. "I will not have the citizens of Los Angeles taking the law into their own hands. If any of you so much as harms Tito Suárez, you will face the stiffest penalty under the law. Kill him," he warned, "and you will face the gallows."

A murmur swept through the tavern's patrons.

Morales directed his lancers outside. "Corporal, you and Privates Delgado and Ibarra keep watch on the tavern. Do not let the crowd's emotions get out of control. Throw them all in jail if you have to. Am I clear?"

"Sí, mi Capitán," Reyes saluted.

"Sergeant," Morales instructed, "Lock these idiots behind bars, assemble the troops, fetch Doctor Avilla if he is still in the pueblo and meet me at the Antúnez hacienda." Garcia did not even get a chance to salute his superior. Morales swung on to Hero and began a race against time to keep two men alive.

* * *

The ebony and ivory chessmen prepared for battle on opposing sides of the checkered game board. Diego, as always, claimed the ebony pieces, leaving the opening move to Alejandro. The older de la Vega scooted a pawn two squares toward its adversaries.

His son matched the move.

A dull headache formed in the back of Alejandro's skull as the game play continued. He sipped from the glass of Mourvèdre to clear his thoughts, but the contrasting colors began to blur together. The silver haired don captured an ebony pawn and took another sip of the wine, but the perfume in the sala overpowered the grape's bouquet.

Diego moved one of the black knights and folded his arms on the table.

Alejandro reached up and rubbed his watery eyes. The stinging persisted and he blinked hard to wash away the burn. His stuffy nose itched and tingled with an impending sneeze, yet no sneeze erupted. "Must you wear those scented handkerchiefs around the hacienda?" He moved a white bishop.

Diego scooted a pawn forward. "I left my handkerchief in my room."

"Santa Maria," Alejandro muttered. "Do not take this the wrong way, mi hijo, but you need a bath." A light breeze trailed in through the open window and another whiff of perfume battered his senses. "And without any of those fragranced soaps or bath salts, I might add."

Diego pursed his lips together and feigned innocence.

"This entire hacienda smells like that… that weapon you use!" Alejandro huffed, moving one of his own pawns. "I was out in the stables earlier and swore I could smell it out there."

Diego chuckled. "Is that not an improvement over the usual odor?" He captured an ivory knight.

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" he remarked. "We are lucky the neighbors have not complained. I do not know what you hope to gain with this charade, other than offending all of our friends, but I am putting my foot down. I will not put up with this torture any longer."

"To tell you the truth, Father, the odor is starting to give me a throbbing headache, too." Diego rubbed the back of his neck. "When I was at lunch with Sofía this afternoon, I didn't know which was worse—the perfume or her voice."

"Speaking of Señorita Pavia," Alejandro interjected, "as much as I yearn to bounce a grandchild on my knee, I do not approve of your spending so much time in her company. I want a daughter-in-law I can hold a conversation with—not one that I have to hide from."

"You have nothing to worry about," Diego laughed. "The chipmunk is smitten with the capitán."

Alejandro raised an eyebrow. "Chipmunk?"

"Sergeant Garcia let it slip. It is the nickname Capitán Morales calls her. Fitting, isn't it?"

"That is another thing, my son,"—he shook his head—"the way you two toy with that girl's affections is deplorable. Caballeros fight honorably for a lady's hand, not to shove her into the other man's arms."

"Once her parents come to collect her, which I hope is sooner rather than later, it will be over with," Diego explained. "The trouble is getting a clear cut answer out of her as to when they will return…"

"It serves you right."

"It's your turn, Father."

"My turn? It is your turn. I just moved a pawn."

"And then I captured your knight." Diego held up the piece for emphasis.

Alejandro frowned. "Did you have to remind me?" He studied the board. While he still had most of his men, his son held the advantage with several ways to strike. The don decided to castle his king to protect the royal and get his rook into a more advantageous position.

Diego countered by entering his queen into the fray.

Alejandro inwardly groaned. It forced him to engage his own queen, who he tried to protect from imprudent decisions. He preferred playing the game of strategy with Nacho and Cornelio; they relied too much on the powerful piece, leaving her vulnerable. Then once their lady was captured, they were at a loss to win.

His son, on the other hand, used her to his advantage, baiting his opponents into foolish traps. Foolish traps his old man fell for, even though he knew better. On the rare occasions Alejandro captured the black queen, Diego still bested him. The fox played equally well without her. There were times he half expected Diego to forfeit his back line and triumph with only the pawns just for the challenge.

Game play progressed, each de la Vega holding his ground. Pawns were captured in battle. Foregoing a bishop for a bishop, the old don kept a sharp eye and avoided the traps. He felt his odds growing stronger. Sliding his queen to the left, his son counted by moving the remaining black bishop.

"Check."

Alejandro harrumphed. How did he not see the rook lying in wait?

He moved his king out of harm's way. "During my lunch with Nacho and Cornelio earlier today, we discussed petitioning the capitán into reinstating the cabildo. We can then elect a new alcalde."

"I recall the last time you tried to get the city council up and running again," Diego observed as he made his next move. "Magistrado Galindo convinced you otherwise."

"I should have realized then that our magistrado was up to no good," Alejandro scoffed. "He should have encouraged us to take more interest in our local government, not persuade against it."

"What brought this on now?"

"Nacho received a letter from his brother-in-law in Mexico City. It brings troubling news. The rebels have made new gains. Last we heard they were near to being quashed. While I fully believe it is only a modest setback, we need to be prepared for all contingencies; even the unlikely event of Spain relinquishing control of Mexico."

Diego reached for his goblet. Instead of sipping the wine, he twirled the stem of his glass. "I know our crown has lost Argentina and Chile, but do you really think there is a legitimate possibility of Mexico gaining independence?"

"To be truthful, I do not know, mi hijo," Alejandro sighed. "I never thought I would live to see the day that the land we de la Vegas have devoted and sacrificed so much for might slip away from our king. Your grandfather and I—and now you—have poured our blood, sweat and tears into this rancho; into this pueblo."

"If it came down to choosing between our king and our rancho," Diego's voice remained soft, "where would your loyalty lay? Would you swear an oath of allegiance to Mexico?"

Leave it to his son not to shy away from the most difficult questions. "I wish I had an answer for you, Diego," Alejandro answered after a long silence, "but I do not. It is almost too unfathomable for me to contemplate."

Diego nodded and Alejandro observed the same uncertainty in his son's eyes.

"That is why I feel it is so important to restore the cabildo," Alejandro continued explaining. "Capitán Morales has proven himself to be a fine officer and loyal to our crown beyond a doubt, but if the worst happens, he will not have any authority. With the cabildo and an alcalde, we will have a unified voice to fight for our people."

"I would like to take part in your efforts."

"It swells my heart with pride to hear you say that." Alejandro grinned. He refocused on the chessboard with rejuvenated spirits and moved his white knight.

Diego wielded the power of his queen. "Check."

The older don chuckled. Nothing distracted his son. His fingers wrapped around the king, preparing to move him to a safe square, when a thump from outside broke his concentration. Craning his neck to look over Diego's shoulder, he saw Bernardo scurrying across the patio. The mute paused to peer up at the stairs before glancing at the sala window.

Alejandro waved to catch his attention.

Bernardo burst into the room, the door closing behind him with another thump. Beads of sweat glistened on his furrowed brow and he could barely keep still. Scanning the room, he began a flurry of hand signals, ending with the letter 'Z' traced into the air.

The father exchanged a worried glance with his son.

"Slow down, Bernardo," Diego advised. "What has you so agitated, my friend?"

The mute bit his lip and slowed his breathing. He started the signals again, taking care not to run his words together. Tapping his chin, he indicated a pointed beard, followed by a moustache that curled at the tips. Only one man in Los Angeles wore such ridiculous facial hair.

"Don Sandalio Antúnez," Alejandro said, putting a name to the description.

Bernardo nodded and made the hourglass shape of a woman.

"And his wife?" Diego assumed.

Bernardo shook his head 'no' and made the shape again.

"His daughter?" Diego asked.

Bernardo nodded. Running a hand over his face and bouncing at the knees, his expression grew increasingly flustered, as if he did not know how to say his next words. He suddenly reached out and shook Diego by the arms. Alejandro's blood ran cold.

"Someone attacked Camila?" his son gasped.

Bernardo nodded.

"How bad is she hurt?" Alejandro inquired, rising to his feet.

Bernardo shrugged and reiterated his plea for Zorro.

"Sí, Zorro rides. You can fill me in on the rest in the cave." Diego bolted from the chair and crossed the sala to the cabinet, Bernardo quick on his heels. They glanced over the room to make sure there were no prying eyes before opening the secret passage.

Just then, a whiff of perfume tickled Alejandro's senses. His heart clutched in his throat and he reached to grab his son by the arm. "Diego, before you ride, Bernardo needs to work his magic. The fox does not need to smell like my bookish son."

Diego gave him a soft smile. "Gracias, Father."

Not wanting to impede them when time was of the essence, Alejandro stayed behind and slumped into his chair. Staring absently at the chess pieces on the board, he frowned. Now he played the most agonizing game of all—the waiting game.

* * *

In the black of night, an unearthly orange glow radiated from the Antúnez rancho. Capitán Morales followed the flames behind the main house. Torches illuminated the open yard outside the stables. Men kept busy saddling horses and rounding up weapons.

Leading the mob, Don Sebastian barked orders with Don Tomas at his side.

Remaining astride Hero, Morales whistled to get their attention. "All of you listen up. I am telling you the same thing I told your friends in the pueblo, who are now sitting in my jail. If any harm comes to Tito Suárez, you will be punished under the fullest extent of the law. If you kill him, you will have a date with my gallows. I will not stand for vigilante justice. Do you understand?"

"Manuel is in jail?" called out one of the workers.

"Never mind that," Don Sebastian shouted. He marched up to the officer. "We are defending the honor of Spanish womanhood. You have no right to stop us, Capitán."

"I have every right to stop you," Morales replied. "Unless you want to spend the next week behind bars, I advise you to cool that hot head and stop this foolishness." He looked over the group. "Go home. Go to bed. The army will handle this matter."

"Don't you dare go anywhere," Don Sebastian commanded through clenched teeth.

Morales smirked. "My lancers are not far behind. When they arrive, I will order them to arrest any man standing in this yard." The crowd hushed and traded nervous glances.

Don Sebastian scowled. "He is bluffing."

"Fines will start at fifteen pesos and you will be eating the garrison food during your stay." The men slowly began to disperse and Morales grinned. "Now, where is Don Sandalio?"

"In the house," Don Tomas replied only to be met with a furious stare from his friend.

Morales nodded his thanks to the meeker hacendado and turned Hero around, leaving the two friends to sort out their differences. At the gate, he secured his mount's reins and entered the patio. Sebastian and Tomas caught up with him. Their bickering drew Sandalio from the hacienda.

"What is going… ah, Capitán," Don Sandalio greeted, "It is good you are here."

Sebastian began growling about the commandante breaking up the search party. The three dons shared gasps of outrage and Sandalio turned furious eyes to his guest. Morales pinched the bridge of his nose and let out another high-pitched whistle. "Quiet! All of you!"

They stared at him like children reprimanded by a parent.

"I will not have any more of this squabbling. Now, Don Sandalio, what happened?" Morales inquired.

"Tito, that… that fiend…" he seethed, anger boiling to the surface, "He attacked my daughter! To think I took that boy in as an orphan. I gave him food, a job and a roof over his head. And this… this is how he returns my generosity! He takes advantage of my little Camila."

"Is she hurt? Has the doctor been summoned?" Morales asked.

"No, no, she is fine," Don Sandalio replied. "There is no need for the doctor."

"I understand your son interrupted the attack," Morales commented.

"Sí, Paulino walked in just in time. I fear to think what would have happened had he not been here," the father sighed. "My wife and I were away having dinner at Tomas' hacienda."

Morales nodded in consideration; that explained how the two quarrelsome hacendados joined the fracas. "I will need to speak with your daughter and see the area where the attack took place."

Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but Sandalio silenced him with a curt wave of the hand. "Camila is inside, Capitán." He led the officer into the sala.

The seventeen-year-old girl sat on a couch next to her mother. As the wives of the three dons looked up at their entrance, Camila kept her head hung low while fiddling with a handkerchief in her hands. Morales noted the señorita's immaculate appearance; each hair tucked perfectly into place and not a thread disturbed on her dress.

"How long ago did this incident take place?" the capitán inquired.

"Maybe thirty or forty minutes ago," Don Sandalio answered. "One of the servants rode out to alert us of what transpired. We returned about twenty minutes ago."

Morales' eyes wandered to the shards of glass and ceramic littering the carpet by the piano. Splintered pieces were all that remained of a coffee table. The damage spoke of violence, yet the señorita escaped harm. Men were out for blood, yet her parents did not even send for a doctor.

It simply did not add up.

Morales stepped further into the room. "Señorita, can you tell me what happened?"

"Tito attacked her, that's what happened!" Don Sandalio replied. "Do not make her relive it."

Morales took a deep breath. These hotheads were trying his patience in a way not even Sofía could. "I am only trying to discover the facts. Right now, your son is prepared to kill Señor Suárez."

A sob escaped Camila's throat.

Morales raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want your son to face trial for murder, all of you had better stop interfering with my investigation and start providing answers."

"Paulino is acting honorably," Sebastian argued. "Tito brought this on himself."

Another sob sounded.

This definitely did not add up. Morales got the distinct impression her sobs were for Tito and not her brother. She did not want any harm to come to the Suárez boy. The rumbling of hoof beats drawing to a halt, followed by the deep baritone giving orders to the lancers, broke his line of thought.

Morales went to the door. Sergeant Garcia approached with Doctor Avilla. As he apologized for calling the physician all the way out to the hacienda for nothing, Sebastian found new energy.

"We are wasting time!"

"That's it," Morales muttered. "Señorita, stay put. The rest of you out." He pointed to the patio. The occupants of the sala glared at him as if he had gone loco. "I mean it, get out."

Sebastian raised his chin. "This is highly unusual."

"Don Sandalio, if you want to save your son's life, I need to speak with your daughter," Morales explained, "and I cannot do with these interruptions. If you love Paulino, help me clear this room."

Sandalio swallowed hard. He nodded and ushered the señores and señoras from the sala.

"Sergeant," Morales instructed, "Keep an eye on them."

"Sí, mi Capitán," Garcia saluted.

Morales closed the door and walked to where Camila sat. He pulled a chair over and took a seat across from her. Even with her head bowed, he detected a faint smile on her lips.

"No one has ever spoken to my papá like that," she whispered, keeping her gaze on the floor.

"I doubt anyone has spoken that way to Don Sebastian, either," he joked. "Señorita," he kept his voice gentle, "I understand how you may not want to discuss intimate matters with me, but it is imperative that I learn what happened here earlier this evening."

"Tito did not attack me." Camila said it so softly he barely discerned the words. She sniffed and raised her head, revealing bloodshot eyes. Her lower lip quivered and she cried, "Please do not let my brother kill Tito. I love him."

Morales blinked hard. "Why didn't you tell your parents this?"

"I wanted to," Camila sobbed, "Papá… Papá never let me explain. Every time I tried, he started on a tirade against Tito. Then Don Sebastian said awful things about him. You saw how they are. They would not even let you talk." She buried her nose in her handkerchief. "Mother kept telling me to hush."

"What about your brother? Did you try reasoning with him?"

"There is no reasoning with my brother when he is angry. He is just like Papá," Camila elucidated. "My parents were away for dinner and Paulino was out somewhere on the rancho when Tito came by the house. We were… kissing," her cheeks blushed, "when he walked in."

Morales sighed, knowing exactly where this led.

"I have never seen his face so red," she continued. "He called Tito terrible names and lunged at him. They fought and fell on the table. I tried to stop Paulino, but he ignored me. Tito got free and ran out of the hacienda. My brother chased him. A few minutes later, Paulino ran into the den and left again. After that I heard horses, but then they were gone."

A sinking feeling took up residence in Morales's stomach. "Do you know why he returned?"

"No," she answered. "He pushed me aside and I went to find Tito."

"Where does your father store his firearms?"

"The den…" Camila trailed off, her eyes widening in horror. She shot upright, picked up the folds of her dress and sprinted to the den. Morales followed. Camila flung open the cabinet on the far wall and whimpered. "They are gone."

Amid the large collection of firearms, he counted two empty slots on a shelf designed to store pistols. "Did anyone enter this room after your brother?"

"No," she replied. "When I could not find Tito, I returned to the sala. My parents arrived a short time later. No one has been in here." She shot him a quizzical gaze. "Why two? Tito will not take part in a duel with my brother."

Morales had to bite the sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue. _In case the first shot misses the target_. "There could be several reasons. Do you know where Tito may have ridden to for safety?"

She pressed her lips together. "There is a place he takes me to," she replied shyly. "It's in the foothills to the east. It is lovely with the stream, flowers and trees. There are even a few caves."

"How would I find it?"

"The old canyon road leads to it. A few hundred yards after passing the abandoned well, there will be a clearing off to your left. It might be difficult to find at night, but it's there."

"Gracias, Señorita," Morales bowed.

"Capitán," she called out when he reached the door, "Please save them both."

He gave her his most reassuring smile. "I will do my best."

Upon exiting the hacienda, the señoras hurried to the sala to rejoin Camila while the dons descended on him with a barrage of questions—and, in the case of Sebastian, accusations of siding with the fiend. Morales pushed his way past the hacendados. His patience at its limits, he turned and shot a furious glare at Sandalio. "Next time, allow your daughter to speak. If something happens to Tito Suárez, his blood will be on all of your hands."

He waved for Garcia to follow him. Once outside the gate, he pulled the portly soldier off to the side and out of earshot of the residents on the patio. "Sergeant, have the lancers spread out. Do not allow any of these… these firebrands to set out after Suárez. And do not permit them to push you around."

"Sí, mi Capitán," Garcia replied.

Morales mounted Hero and set off for the eastern edge of the Antúnez lands. He located the old canyon road without difficulty and kept an eye out for the abandoned well. Dense brush covered the foothills. Tall trees with verdant canopies shrouded the terrain in shadows.

Off to his right, moonlight filtering in glinted off the broken stones of the derelict well. The capitán pressed on. In the thick overgrowth, he struggled to find any type of clearing. Either of the two men could be anywhere in the thick tangle. Then he spotted the horse tethered to a tree.

Morales slid off the saddle and inspected the animal. It belonged to the Antúnez rancho. It had to be Paulino's. A man fleeing for his life would not leave such an obvious indicator as to his whereabouts.

The capitán retrieved a pistol from his saddlebag, left his mare with the sorrel and scouted the area for a path leading to the clearing. He crept along the narrow trail, keeping low. The white trousers and metal adornments of his uniform were not conductive to sneaking around in the dark. He may as well have been carrying a torch.

The trail curled around rocks and trees. In the distance, he heard the soothing rippling of a creek.

"Come out, scum!"

The shout rang out loud and clear. Morales picked up his pace and spied Paulino in the middle of the clearing, a pistol in each hand. Bags of ammunition lay at his feet.

On the opposite side of the open area, a second sorrel horse grazed on the banks of the stream. Mounds of rocks and boulders spanned from the water's edge to just north of the path. Paulino aimed his weapons at a large opening, cornering his prey in a cave.

"Coward! Come out!"

If Morales approached Paulino straight on, he would likely get shot. Retreating to the growth in the southern edge of the clearing instead, he hoped to talk the irate brother out of killing his sister's lover. First, he needed to observe the don's behavior for a few minutes to decide on how best to proceed. Circling the perimeter for a better look at the mouth of the cave, he stepped on a twig. The crack resounded in the night sky. Morales swore under his breath.

Paulino twirled.

The capitán shifted to hide from view. Just then, the moonlight glittered off the medals pinned to his chest. He may as well have set off a firecracker. The don raised the pistol and fired.

Morales dove for cover behind a tree as the boom sent birds scattering from their nests.

"Who's there?" Paulino called out.

With his back pressed against the trunk, Morales peered around the bark and watched the don reloading the spent pistol, the other one still primed to fire within easy reach. "Don Paulino Antúnez, this is Capitán Morales. Lay down your weapons and stop this nonsense."

"I didn't mean to shoot at you, Capitán."

Morales snickered. "Then why did you?" he muttered to himself.

"I only want to kill Suárez." Paulino finished reloading and returned to shouting at the cave. "Come out you mangy dog, so I can kill you!"

"Oh, like that's going to work," Morales muttered again. "Listen to me, Don Paulino," he exclaimed, choosing his words carefully. Informing an irate caballero his sister was in love with a ranch worker probably wasn't the wisest way to calm him down. "This is all a misunderstanding."

"Sí, it is a misunderstanding I will resolve after I kill the mangy dog!"

Morales groaned and rested his head against the tree. _Baboso_. Leaning forward to peer around the trunk once more, his hand brushed a large rock. He picked it up, an idea taking shape.

Movement from his right caused him to tense. Morales tightened his grip on the pistol. The faint sound of leaves crunching under footsteps drew closer. He turned and took aim at the black silhouette.

"Buenas noches, Capitán."

Morales exhaled the breath he was holding and lowered the weapon. "I should have known you would get involved. You are not as silent as I imagined you to be."

"It would be impolite to sneak up on you unannounced," Zorro whispered, flashing white teeth. The fox glanced at the rock in the officer's hand. "I am afraid that will not work. I have already tried drawing Don Paulino's fire by tossing rocks in opposite directions. He does not shoot unless he sees something."

"Ah, so I have your antics to thank for getting him riled up enough to shoot at a king's lancer. Gracias."

"De nada," Zorro quipped, bowing his head.

"How long have you been here?" Morales inquired.

"Long enough to determine there is no way to get at Don Paulino as long as he has both pistols. He only shoots one at a time, which means rushing him is off limits. His father instructed him well; he will not miss at point blank range. He also remains out of range of my whip."

"Smart boy, despite his display of stupidity," Morales remarked. Hunkered down in close quarters with the masked man, he noted that de la Vega did not smell of the nauseating perfume. He wondered if Don Alejandro forced his son to take a bath. "So, do you have any other ideas on how to peacefully resolve this standoff?"

"Sí, but I will need your help," Zorro replied, "and your pistol."

Morales arched an eyebrow. "What's the plan?"

"I will circle around to the stream. You head back to the path. When I fire a shot, it should draw Don Paulino's attention. Both of his weapons will be pointed in my direction."

"And I can tackle him from the rear," Morales concluded. "Though I am curious, why do I not fire the pistol and you wrestle him to the ground? I hear you excel at such heroics."

Zorro grinned. "The path is closer to Don Paulino's position. With the angle of the moon in the sky, you would never make it to the stream unobserved with all those pretty medals." He made a sweeping motion at the commandante's chest.

Morales chuckled. "Not everyone has your tailor." He offered the firearm to the fox and slunk toward the path. In a small cranny free of loose twigs, he crouched down, preparing to leap forward.

The gunshot echoed. Paulino jerked and spun toward the water. "Who is there? Capitán?" Morales jumped to his feet and ran full charge at the don. He threw his weight into the younger's man back and they collided hard with the ground.

After a short scuffle in the dirt, Morales pinned Paulino's arm behind his back. The capitán moved to stand, dragging the squirming and thrashing don up with him. "Calm down."

"Let me go!" Paulino continued to resist. Morales twisted his arm. "Aiyee!" the don yelped.

"Settle down or I will break it." The don whipped his head around at the threat, stiffened and then went limp in his captor's grip. "That's much better," Morales counseled, not releasing his hold. "You are going to listen to me. This has all been one big misunderstanding."

"I know what I saw," Paulino retorted.

Morales sighed. He observed the fox emerging from the shadows. Despite the mask, he could perceive the amused look etched into de la Vega's features.

"It's Zorro!" Paulino exclaimed.

"I can see that," Morales quipped.

"Aren't you going to go after him?"

"No," Morales replied, "I am too busy dealing with you." The presence of the bandit seemed to distract Paulino's thoughts from killing Tito. "Are you going to behave yourself?"

"Sí," Paulino nodded.

Morales released his hold on the younger man and collected the pistols lying on the ground. "Now, we need to straighten out a few details. Tito Suárez did not attack your sister. He," the capitán strained for the best way to phrase it, "holds great admiration for Camila."

"Sí, that is true," a new voice said. Tito emerged from the cave. "I love Camila."

Paulino hurtled at his sister's lover and wrestled him to the ground. The two rolled around in the dirt exchanging blows. Morales glanced at the fox and rolled his eyes. "It's your turn."

"And keep all the fun for myself?" Zorro replied.

Morales set the firearms aside. He walked over to the tussle, grabbed Paulino's collar, seized his arm and hauled him up again, while Zorro took hold of Tito.

"You mangy dog!" Paulino hollered. "You scum!"

"That is enough," Morales commanded, struggling with his detainee. "Do you really want me to break your arm?" He exerted extra pressure to reinforce the threat. "Your sister reciprocates Tito's affections."

"Sí, I love her," Tito repeated, "and I want to marry her."

"You do?" Paulino asked, his thrashing coming to a halt.

"I have loved her for a long time," Tito explained. "We want to get married, but we fear Don Sandalio will never consent to his daughter marrying a vaquero."

"But my father has always liked you," Paulino countered. "I will help you to convince him. I would be honored to have my best friend as my brother-in-law."

Morales could not believe his ears. "You two are best friends?" He let go of the younger man. Paulino enveloped his friend in a big bear hug, patting his shoulder as they pulled apart. They began discussing the wedding. "You have got to be joking," he muttered. "That's it. Both of you are spending the night in my jail."

"Why?" Paulino and Tito cried in unison.

"For disturbing the peace of the pueblo," Morales replied, "and acting like idiots." He gathered up the discarded firearms and motioned to the creek. "Get that horse." Tito did as ordered.

Zorro tossed him the spent pistol. "Adiós, Capitán." The fox saluted and vanished into the shadows.

"What a night," Morales muttered to himself.

* * *

After making a brief stopover at the Antúnez hacienda to inform the family what happened and to collect his soldiers, Capitán Morales led his prisoners and troops to the cuartel. Riding through the open gate, his eyes went immediately to the overflowing jail cells. Dismounting, he handed Hero's reins to a nearby private and chuckled.

Sergeant Garcia led his horse to the stable and joined his superior. "I have never seen so many people in the jail before. How did they all get in there?"

"We should probably ask Corporal Reyes." Morales smiled.

Garcia pushed his hat off and scratched his head. His round features contorted in bewilderment. "How are we ever going to fit Don Paulino and Tito in the cells?" Reyes meandered over to them and saluted. "What did you do, Corporal?" the sergeant gasped, staring at him in disbelief.

"I made arrests," Reyes replied in his usual sleepy timbre.

"But why?" Garcia asked.

"The capitán told me to."

"The capitán said to throw them in jail only if you _had_ to."

Reyes shrugged. "I had to."

"But they are the tavern's customers!" Garcia protested.

"Sí," Reyes concurred, "the capitán ordered me to watch the tavern."

"The innkeeper will not be happy," Garcia groaned. "There goes my account."

Reyes crinkled his forehead. "You do not have an account at the tavern."

"I am thinking of the future, baboso," Garcia explained. His eyes widened in dread and his voice notched up an octave. "You did not arrest the innkeeper, did you?"

Reyes looked offended. "Of course not."

Barely able to keep from laughing out loud, Capitán Morales left the two bumbling soldiers to discuss the future of the their drinking. He located Private Ibarra near the barracks. "Are all of our prisoners the result of Corporal Reyes' efforts to keep emotions under control?"

"Sí, mi Capitan," Ibarra answered.

"Were there any acts of violence involved?"

"No, mi Capitán."

"Fetch the keys and meet me at the jail." Morales strolled over to his guests. "Listen up, Señores. The matter concerning Señorita Antúnez has been brought to a close. She is unharmed. As you can see," he motioned over his shoulder, "Don Paulino Antúnez and Tito Suárez have mended their differences. Keep your tempers in check and you are all free to go." He gave the signal for Ibarra to unlock the bars.

"Even us?" Miguel asked.

"Even you four," Morales replied.

"Gracias!" They all scurried away from the cuartel.

The capitán locked the two troublemakers up for the night and made a beeline for his office. Garcia and Reyes were still arguing over the future of his account at the tavern. Climbing the stairs and taking refuge in his quarters, he started unbuttoning his jacket. A small box on his desk piqued his curiosity. Next to it resided a note with his name inscribed in fancy script.

He opened the door and called for the sergeant. Garcia came running. "Sí, mi Capitán?"

"Where did the package on my desk come from?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you about it. The little one brought it by right after you left for dinner."

"Gracias, Sergeant. That is all," Morales instructed. He closed the door and stared at the innocent box. The little one. Bernardo. What in the hell did de la Vega do? He slid his finger under the seal and unfolded the piece of paper.

_Dear Capitán,_

_I thought these might come in handy at dinner tonight._

_Sincerely,  
__Diego de la Vega_

Morales opened the lid. Inside were two small lumps of pliable wax. Earplugs.

"I knew it!"

The capitán could not wait to show Moneta just how wrong she was about her friend during their picnic. However, his enthusiasm slowly dwindled as he read the note again. De la Vega kept it purposely vague. She would never believe him.


End file.
